


Spin Control

by Trovia



Series: Spinner's Verse [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 72nd Hunger Games, 73rd Hunger Games, 74th Hunger Games, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Anorexia, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, District 12, District 4, Exercise Addiction, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Male Friendship, News Media, Noncanonical Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Rape Fantasy, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Self-Hatred, Television
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 146,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Haymitch Abernathy’s alcoholism makes the prime time news, Finnick Odair is sent to live in District Twelve to pick up the pieces. But it’s hard to save a friend if you can barely stand looking yourself in the eye. And it might become impossible once that friend decides to move hell and high water to bring two of his tributes home at once, even if it should cost him his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Like in previous stories, I’m assuming that Haymitch lied when he told Kat that Snow had never sold him into prostitution. Of _course_ he would lie, if Snow had, and he makes more sense to me as a character that way. 
> 
> I’m borrowing some backstory from other, great THG writers. The references to Haymitch’s family and girlfriend as well as the story of how he met Beetee are liberated from millari's beautiful [Planting Seeds in Vanquished Soil](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1063418), a Haymitch Victory Tour fic that in turn also borrows some backstory from this story. The Wintermas holiday was invented by whipstitch in her hilarious and creepy fic [Of Wintermas Not Long Ago](http://archiveofourown.org/works/609252). Some references to the Careers are heavily inspired by lorata’s fic. A lot of thanks to millari for betaing and to deathmallow for providing me with thoughtful commentary on District Twelve. 
> 
> **Full List Of Warnings:** forced prostitution  & non-con (short but ugly); people dealing with sexual trauma; rape fantasies; self-hate; canon-typical violence; minor character death (of major canon characters); implied physical abuse of children (in the Mellark household); alcoholism & drug abuse; anorexia & exercise addiction
> 
>  **Where’s My Victor?** If you’re looking for the Peeta/Kat bits but don’t want to bother with the whole story, I’d recommend starting at around Chapter 17, where that gets going for real, though they do make their share of appearances before that too. Gale’s appearances will be scattered through the fic more evenly. Gale and Peeta both are scheduled to make their first appearance in Chapter 6. Kat, Chapter 11. Chaff will be featured prominently as well.

### Prologue

There was that one time he talked to Haymitch during the 71st Games. It was the first year they made Finnick mentor a tribute in between sleeping his way through the Capitol, the third year since Haymitch himself had fallen into a pit of booze; it was in some alley behind some club. Finnick would never even remember who the client had been that night or what they had done to make him react the way he did. It couldn’t even have been anything _bad_ \- there hadn’t been terrible clients that year, nobody _weird_ , nobody who made him pee on things or fucked him with a household item. But those Games had still been the first time his subconscious decided to inform him that it refused to take that shit from him anymore; it had been when every client had made him tremble and threaten to shatter into little bits, while he was only trying to save lives. 

All he’d remember of that part of the night later was a client’s hands on his bare chest and lips on his throat, a wall pressed against his back and the psychedelic lights of a dance floor flashing all around, bright reds and blues. Making an excuse and feeling bile rise before he had even made it out of the club. Stumbling into the alley to greedily breathe in city air and, just, meaning to puke it all away. 

His skin was crawling, as if those had been the antennas of insects touching him instead of fingers. His hands on his knees the only thing keeping him balanced, Finnick couldn’t stop heaving, cold summer air caressing his bare shoulders. Even that sensation felt intrusive; it would have made him scream if he hadn’t been too busy retching. 

Looking back at it later, he’d probably been slipped some drug that night.

Finnick couldn’t even remember how Haymitch had been out there alongside him or why – it wasn’t exactly where the cool kids hung out, though maybe Haymitch had followed him out, maybe he’d bumped into him on his way to the back door. Maybe, Finnick thought later, Haymitch had been on the run from something as well. But when his stomach was finally empty, Finnick was too exhausted to wonder why the other man had shown up, leaning against the wall and waiting him out, his familiar heavy frame – so unusual in both the districts and the Capitol – a strangely steady presence in the corner of his eye; it didn’t even make him jump. Haymitch was holding not a flask, but a bottle of water out to Finnick wordlessly, thick smell of booze accompanying the gesture. He always smelled of booze these days – always very clean underneath in a surprising way too, but always of booze.

“So is this drugs or shock?” the Twelve victor asked in his gruff way while Finnick took a sip, as if it were the most normal inquiry to make in a dark Capitol alley. 

_I hate this life,_ Finnick helplessly thought, swirling the water in his mouth and spitting it out. “Nothing,” he managed, wiping a tear out of the corner of his eye angrily. “It’s nothing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It just… keeps happening like this.” It was simply a dangerous reaction to start having to his clients, losing control over the situation like that. 

“Seriously, kid? Hunger Games is what’s wrong with you,” Haymitch said dryly. And, even more conversationally, “Sometimes it just hits you like that. It might stop again after a while. 

“Did for me – these things come and go.” 

He nodded at the back door of the club. “You gotta get back in?”

“When has the answer to that question ever been no?” Finnick bitterly shot back, and Haymitch laughed in that slightly unhinged way that he’d adopted alongside his excessive drinking.

Finnick tried to join him, but instead he felt himself shuddering and the nausea creeping up again, so he leaned against a dumpster, too tired to mind the dirt and grime that would end up smeared all over his bare arm. Maybe his date would like that. Closing his eyes, he just breathed, deep and calming breaths, the way they taught you to breathe if you went swimming in the ocean and lost control amidst the waves. 

The other man’s hand was on his arm, rubbing abashed circles and he could hear Haymitch making a sound, something gruff and loath of the situation overall and strangely soothing. 

“I hate going back every time. I wish I didn’t have to,” he heard himself say abruptly, as if the unexpected touch had made something come loose. He opened his eyes to stare at the wall. When he heard Haymitch starting to reply, he continued vehemently. “Not back in there.” He nodded at the club. “Back home. District Four.” His eyes were still burning from the tears that were threatening to spill over, from the bile in his throat. It was one of those days when everything hurt. “I hate that they – Mags, my parents, everybody – that they have to see me like that, like I’m...” But he ran out of words at that point. Collaborator. Slut. Killer. Saying it aloud would make it even more real, so he just bit his lip. It still felt swollen, from the kissing.

“Aw, kid, listen…” Haymitch said in a strained voice as if he was suddenly finding himself wildly out of his depth, his hand still on Finnick’s shoulder, as if he had decided that he would try and hold him upright physically for lack of better options. 

“I don’t know how they can stand to look at me anymore,” Finnick managed, feeling like he was running out of air. 

So much for his breathing technique. 

Those were things Finnick Odair had never said aloud and he was surprised now to hear them coming out of his mouth, that dirty secret that he’d been keeping to himself. He had hated being back in District Four this year. He’d been relieved that Mags had been gone on Victory Tour with Annie Cresta, whom he had managed to avoid despite Mags’ insistence that they should meet, because Annie seemed gentle and kind and had gone through enough in the debacle that had been her Games. She should get to stay away from people like him. 

It wasn’t the worst secret Finnick kept about what kind of person he had become, but it was the most pressing right now. He was supposed to be a _hero_ back in Four, for heaven’s sake. 

Finnick Odair really, really didn’t think of himself as a hero. 

The hand on his arm vanished while Haymitch, very calmly, unscrewed the lid of what was actually a flask this time. It appeared underneath Finnick’s nose alongside the sharp stench of something so high-proof that it might have been sold as a disinfectant rather than a drink. Gratefully, Finnick tilted his head and let it run down his throat when it was handed to him. 

Then he was coughing as a wildfire burned down his throat and lungs, and he was working hard on not toppling over. He could hear Haymitch guffawing, patting Finnick’s shoulder sympathetically. It always surprised Finnick on those rare occasions when Haymitch happened to touch him, how strong the other man felt, even to Finnick, who was amongst the tallest and most muscular of young victors and had four inches on Haymitch. He was always surprised when Haymitch touched him, period. 

“Might settle your stomach, I thought,” the other victor said. It wasn’t an apology. Finnick was still coughing. The alcohol rushed straight to his head, making him feel light.

“ _Dissolve_ my stomach, more like,” he said roughly. “What is that? Machine oil?”

“Hob liquor. White,” Haymitch said, which explained nothing much. 

His hand remained firm on Finnick’s back when Finnick bent over to puke again, though, even though there was nothing left inside of him but the water and the booze and bile. When he would go back in to serve his client, the spot on his shoulder where Haymitch’s hand had been would feel oddly empty all night; he just wasn’t used to that kind of support anymore, not when his family didn’t know how to give it and he’d rather die than talk to Mags about sex. 

It never occurred to Finnick that Haymitch had never told him whether he knew that feeling, that shame of having to look people he loved in the eye after having been made almost Capitol. 

If it had, he might have considered that there were no such people left for Haymitch. 

There was another world, somewhere, in which the victors of Panem made contact with District Thirteen in that year, during those Games, and everything changed when the rebellion began. Haymitch sobered up somewhat, just for a little while but long enough for everything to turn out differently. Finnick gained new hope and went to make new friends back home; he went to meet Annie Cresta and became a happier man. 

This was not that world.


	2. Chapter 1: Newsflash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Who would over-indulge in such a positively_ shocking _fashion at the greatest day of the year?”_

### Chapter 1: Newsflash

The thing was that the victors who bothered thinking about it had always assumed that Haymitch didn’t drink all that much _between_ the Games and the Victory Tour, that is. It made perfect sense to get drunk at those times, after all. A lot of people did. He was an alcoholic, certainly; nobody but an addict would ever be able to maintain such a high level of blood alcohol for a whole Games. But surely, he had to be drinking less than that when home amongst friends. A man who drank as much as Haymitch all _year_ would eventually slip in the shower and hit his head or be found unconscious from alcohol poisoning one morning. And that had never happened, as far as the other victors were aware, so Haymitch simply couldn’t be _that_ terrible a drunk. 

It hadn’t happened, at that, until now. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ ,” Caramel Doll wouldn’t stop muttering again and again, such terrible words out of the District Four victor’s beautiful mouth. There had been a time when Caramel – who’d changed his name in this unfortunate prophetic way when he had volunteered – had been almost as popular with the Capitol as Finnick. Finnick couldn’t say he liked being in a room with him any more than the other victor liked spending time with Finnick. But now, Caramel’s attention wasn’t on him for once. “Fuck.”

Neither of them was having any time to watch the other out of the corner of their eye in that usual nervous way. Instead, their focus was trained on the flatscreen mounted on the wall of the train’s bar compartment. And Finnick couldn’t say he disagreed with the other man’s sentiment. 

It was the dawn of the 72nd Hunger Games – an hour after Finnick had hopped the train to the Capitol alongside this year’s tributes and mentors to spend another Games praying that the children would die fast so that he wouldn’t have to spread his legs for all too many people. The tributes had been herded out of the room by Honestia, the escort, when it had become clear that Reaping Day live coverage wouldn’t progress with the usual recap after District Twelve’s two o’clock slot. Nothing about the last Reaping in District Twelve had followed regular procedure, because Twelve’s only mentor had just never shown up, not even after a crying thirteen-year-old girl and a starved boy with a walking impairment had been reaped by a befuddled escort and a paling district mayor, both unsure what to do. 

Finnick was sitting on the couch, arms propped on his knees while he tried to tell himself that this couldn’t be as bad as the horror scenarios unfolding in his head. There was no family of Haymitch’s left to kill, he tried to remind himself. President Snow wouldn’t want for his only victor of Twelve to become unfit to use. But Snow was inventive enough to find something other than family to punish his victors with, and Twelve had participated in the Games without a district mentor before. 

Haymitch just hadn’t shown up for the Reaping for whatever reason, leaving an entire district waiting uncomfortably while it became clearer and clearer to them that whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good for any of them. Speculation had commenced amongst the Twelve media correspondents – when had the victor last been seen? Could he be _sleeping_ still? What if he was hurt! Surely he had to be hurt.

The female tribute hadn’t been able to stop crying.

After regular programming had been so thoroughly disrupted, the excited crowd of reporters, in the spotlight for the first time in their careers, was closing in on Haymitch’s house in the district’s Victors’ Village, breathlessly recapping how the Peacekeepers would break open the door to calm the audience’s terrible concern for the victor. Panem _needed_ to see what was going on here. 

“This is bad,” Finnick muttered to nobody specific, feeling sick. Next to him Caramel, who was standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, just said, “Fucking hell” again without looking away from the screen; Finnick flinched a little, having forgotten to expect a reply from him. Mags, who had sat down on her chair, looked deeply concerned meanwhile, and probably not because she shared the reporters’ belief that only a “crippling injury, possibly to the leg” could have kept Haymitch from attending Panem’s most joyful celebration. Finnick thought they all had a pretty clear idea of why Haymitch had most likely not shown up at the Reaping, because misconceptions about his addiction or not, the answer as to why Haymitch did anything had been ‘Hob liquor, white’ for a couple of years. 

Haymitch’s house looked a mess even from the outside, the remains of bright blue paint peeling off the walls, and wildly growing fern covering the lawn. It stood amidst an otherwise perfectly maintained anonymous town, like when a picture was drawn with a different material from the rest. It took Finnick a moment to understand that this was because it was a ghost town, inhabited by Haymitch only. But the reporters remained blind to what they were exposing, focusing only on the threats of the story they were weaving. The door screeched when a Peacekeeper broke it open with the handle of a gun. It was dark inside the house. 

“What the fuck, Haymitch,” Finnick could hear Caramel muttering under his breath and sort of felt himself agreeing. Sole victor of the district and all, fine, they all knew that but he hadn’t pictured it like _this,_ without even a housekeeper in evidence when the man was a victor, richest man of his district. And it was painful to look at, too, when all of Panem could see. The Capitol wouldn’t know where to look, but the districts did. The victors did. Haymitch’s friends.

This was not the house of a healthy man. The handheld camera panned wildly through a darkened living room covered in litter. Years’ worth of Capitol food delivery boxes were stacked in corners, never thrown out. Empty bottles on the living room table, shards of broken glass crunching under the intruders’ feet on stained carpet.

Somebody screamed then, “I found him!” The camera went into motion. When the lifeless lump of Haymitch at the foot of a stairway came into view, the cameraman took the time to zone in on his face. Lying barely conscious in a puddle of vomit, Haymitch’s eyes were sluggishly trying to open – possibly concussed on top of drunk, Finnick thought in a daze – clearly not understanding what was going on around him. Only then did people start acting, turning him on his back and saying his name and frantically calling for a doctor when he just groaned in a sickly way. 

“Oh no,” Mags was exhaling it in one long breath as if to say, _there is no way this is going to end well._

As if anything ever ended well for them, Finnick snorted to himself darkly.

“…found here in his own house.” The reporter-in-chief was filling the camera frame now, talking to a tiny image of Flickerman in the lower right corner of the screen, who was calling in from the studio with a concerned face. The reporter, eyes round, high on the adrenaline of a real story, didn’t seem to even have noticed that her orange wig had come slightly askew on her hurried track to the Village. “Apparently _passed out from alcohol_ , Caesar. The district is in _shock_ and everybody has gathered to see what is happening to their only victor.”

“Of course they would,” Flickerman supplied with feeling, “We here in the studio are in shock as well. What can you tell us about Haymitch’s condition?”

“It is hard to say,” the reporter replied. “This might be alcohol poisoning or Haymitch might have fallen down the stairs. Possibly, I’m afraid to tell you, Caesar, it is both. As you can see, Mayor Undersee’s people are already arranging for a transport so that Haymitch can be brought to the Capitol for proper, civilized treatment…”

Finnick noticed that he was holding his breath. 

“Come on,” Caramel was urging on the television through clenched teeth. “Spin it in a way that won’t screw him completely here.” And to the side, like he couldn’t really believe a positive turn of events was even possible, “Oh the fuck, Haymitch.”

Mags’ whole face was blank now, Finnick saw. He’d seen her worried, when he’d mentored for the first time at her side last year, when that One tribute had snuck out of her sleeping bag towards Corina, their girl. He’d seen her with deadly focus. But that had been in a situation Mags had seen play out over a hundred of times in her mentoring career. This, on the other hand, wasn’t mediated by Games rules. It was created on the fly, spinning out of control.

 _“I cannot believe Haymitch was as irresponsible as to get drunk the night before the Reaping,”_ he imagined the reporter telling Flickerman, feeling cold at the thought. Or, _“How would any mentor endanger their ability to attend the Reaping! It is, after all, the greatest of honors…”_

 _It’ll be as if he told the Capitol ‘fuck you.’ They’ll say he chose getting drunk over attending the Games and Snow will… oh fuck, Snow will make him pay…_

“We all seem to _vastly_ have underestimated Haymitch’s situation here in his home district, Caesar,” the reporter intoned. “It has been known for a good while that Haymitch has a drinking problem…” 

“Yes, yes,” Flickerman readily chimed in. “I can see where you are going, Chantal. We have all seen it but none of us…”

“It’s a disease, of course, it is not under his control,” Chantal agreed breathlessly. “We can see it here. Who would over-indulge in such a positively _shocking_ fashion on the greatest day of the year?”

“Only an addict,” Flickerman finished gravely. 

“Yes!” Chantal agreed dramatically. “It is a _disease_ , Caesar. And we are all very, _very_ lucky that we have been alerted about it in time to stop it. I hope that it isn’t too late! The generous help of the Capitol is the one thing that can help Haymitch Abernathy now.” Posing exuberantly, she gave the camera a bright smile. “Thanks to the generosity of the Capitol, Haymitch will be sober in _no time._ ”

The first time Chantal, relegated to the dark horse district, had ever taken point at all, and already she had changed the fate of a man. 

She’d probably be receiving a promotion, maybe even get to cover the Careers.

 _It could be worse,_ Finnick tried to tell himself, but he still groaned and rubbed his temple to fight the headache that he felt creeping up. _It could be worse. If they’ve decided he’s sick, it could be one hell of a lot worse._ If Haymitch was sick, not showing up at the Reaping hadn’t been under his control. It hadn’t been because he didn’t care what the Capitol wanted him to do. That would have meant starvation for the whole district and probably an ‘accidental’ death for Haymitch. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The problem with _this_ scenario was that the reporters were apparently chartering Haymitch off to some Capitol rehab facility right now, and once he left it, he had better stay sober for the cameras forever, or there’d be hell to pay for his district, for his friends. 

Except they all knew that there was no chance that Haymitch Abernathy would ever stay sober in a world where there were Hunger Games. 

“Fuck,” Caramel said.


	3. Chapter 2: Arena Talk With Flickerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Indeed, Dr. Quirm warned us that it would be dangerous for Haymitch’s recovery if he were to continue his duties as mentor without making considerable changes to his life first.”_

### Chapter 2: Arena Talk With Flickerman

It was later that evening on the Four floor of the Training Center when an Avox arrived carrying a note. Finnick accepted it without much thought, since it had just been a matter of time until his schedule of clients for the Training Week would arrive. It was only at the second glance that he noticed the instructions differing from the usual format of name and day, so he said, “Hang on for a moment” before the Avox could leave and leaned against the window sill, studying the order. A late-night edition of _Arena Talk_ , Flickerman’s show had been scheduled on short notice and apparently Finnick was to appear as a guest. 

“I’m sorry, did you bring Caramel one of these, too?” The woman shook her head. “Mags?” A nod. “Thank you,” he said, adding the hand sign for it too and she waved, scuttling off. 

However, while Finnick’s first instinct would have been to go and find out which other victors would be dragged onto the show tonight before he drew any conclusions, fact was that there had only been one event of importance today beyond the Reaping and only one topic that afforded the extra attention. A Hovercraft had taken Haymitch to a Capitol hospital shortly after the broadcast had concluded. A doctor had released the information that “Mr. Abernathy” was conscious and oriented now, though lacking any memory of recent events. He had a minor concussion and a broken arm from how he had fallen down the stairs while drunk, but those small injuries would be healed within days. 

Finnick wondered why he, of all victors, had been chosen to appear on the show and if there was anything he’d be supposed to do except sit at the round table and look beautiful while other people used the big words. 

* * *

The answer to that question was no. Looking beautiful and aloof was exactly his only job that night, since the public storyline went that Finnick didn’t have anything to share on the topic of substance abuse. The fact that clients had expectantly handed him his fair share of party drugs wasn’t exactly what he’d call common knowledge, it didn’t count in the eyes of the Capitol anyway, and he had a pretty good idea that President Snow wanted to keep it like that. It was a show of trust, obviously: The President felt sure that Finnick would know not to go there. Flickerman had probably been instructed not to go there, as well.

After a remake session with Cherry, his stylist, and her team, he was trying to get comfortable in his chair despite the excuse for a pair of pants he wore, while the studio lights burned down on him and Flickerman discussed Haymitch Abernathy’s alcoholism, which was still a _disease_. He’d also been joined by a concerned Chaff, a knowledgeable Mags and old Terence from District Six, who had been through addiction as a young adult himself before the Capitol had saved him with its love. Finnick tried to avoid looking at Terence’s long sleeves, such an uncommon styling choice in a boiling hot television studio, covering up puncture wounds of Morphling needles. Before the show, Finnick had walked in on him shooting himself up in the men’s room. As far as he knew, Terence had never once sobered up since he’d won the 26th Games with a knife and a garrote.

Chaff took control of the conversation without prompting and did what needed doing on the victors’ end to keep Haymitch alive, swiftly building on the news coverage by weaving a story of loneliness and fame and social responsibility, a term Finnick hadn’t been aware the Capitol actually ever used for anything. 

“Truth is, I should have seen it coming,” Chaff was saying, sprawled all over his chair as if he owned the world in that way he had and yet still looking supremely unhappy. “Everybody here is blaming themselves now, what with how often all the victors are featured on the television, but honestly, I’m his best buddy. Sure, yeah, we go out for drinks all the time. How could anybody else have seen it coming if I didn’t?”

“Now, now, Chaff, you were only seeing him once a year,” Flickerman chided him gently.

“Well yeah, all the signs were there for me to see though and I didn’t, right?” Chaff replied. “All the signs were there, but I didn’t want to see. I didn’t realize how hard it must be for Haymitch, only victor of Twelve and all and always the only mentor for the two tributes, too. He never gets to sleep properly during the Games until they’re both out, did you know that? Probably used the alcohol to stay awake.”

After delivering that last statement with a sorrowful face as if it actually had made any sense, he paused. 

“And it doesn’t help that the Capitol drinks are so damn good. Easy for me to get distracted, too,” he added with chagrin, and the audience laughed. 

Mags gave him a fond look before she turned to Flickerman. “The public often underestimates how stressful the life of a victor can become,” she said very seriously, careful to adopt something resembling the Capitol accent like she always did on the television, making sure she would be understood. When some of her teeth had been punched out in her arena, they had been replaced by the old-fashioned prosthetics they would spare for victors in those days, but she refused to have them adjusted anymore now that she was old, demanding people should just start listening more carefully to what she had to say. “It is especially hard for victors if they are supposed to be performing as mentor but failing. It is a great honor to be a mentor, victors are always anxious to succeed. It can be too much, honestly. I have seen this playing out many times. We put ourselves under pressure. One can get overwhelmed.”

“That’s what it was like for me, too,” Terence agreed with his grainy old voice, having aged prematurely. He could as well have been Mags’ age instead of only sixty. “The responsibility was weighing down on me. Not just to the Capitol, who I owed so much, but also to my tributes.”

“We all want to be at our best during the Games,” Chaff concluded. 

“What do you think, Finnick?” Flickerman addressed him with a face of rapt interest. He usually adopted that same expression when he told Finnick to get on his knees and suck him off in his dressing room, as if it was a great adventure they were undertaking together. Suppressing a shudder, Finnick adopted a mildly inquiring look; the ancient host had the gall to wink at him. “You _are_ spotted celebrating at parties more often than you are following the Games these days, are you not?”

A chuckle rolled through the audience, while Finnick graced him with a lazy smile, casting for something non-committal to say. “It sounds like I should probably start listening to Mags,” he settled on replying after a moment. The chuckle rose to a laugh. 

“We should all listen to Mags Swanton,” Flickerman agreed with fake severity, then adopted a more honestly serious face again, moving through his moderation industriously as he addressed the camera. “Talk of advice brings me to the latest news that we received from White Feathers Rehabilitation Center, where the Head of Patient Support, Dr. Remus Quirm has told us that he will very likely not be able to release Haymitch in time for Day One of the Games. Indeed, Dr. Quirm warned us that it would be dangerous for Haymitch’s recovery if he were to continue his duties as mentor without making considerable changes to his life first. You’ll already have seen this on the news, but have another look at the footage.”

Alongside the others, Finnick dutifully turned to look at the massive holo screen behind their chairs, where the image of an ageless medic with mint green patterns tattooed on his bald head flickered to life. “I am worried about Mr. Abernathy, I am. This is going to be a difficult case,” the doctor told the camera. “As therapists, we see this every day. Yes, we can help this patient to detoxify and send him on his way. Will he have lost his attitude problem? No. He will drink again, and we cannot blame him for that. It will be almost impossible for him to not drink without undergoing extensive therapy first. It would even be so if he was a Capitol citizen, held to our higher standards of restraint. In my professional opinion, Mr. Abernathy is not fit to fulfill his duties by himself and he will not be for a long time to come. You cannot expect this man to act as the sole mentor for his district any longer.”

“So there is the pressing matter of District Twelve’s participation in this 72nd Hunger Games,” Flickerman continued when the feed was cut off, addressing the four of them. “There are two young tributes at the Training Center now, anxiously waiting for a mentor to prepare them for the Games as we speak. It doesn’t seem like it will be Haymitch. Furthermore, there is the matter of Haymitch handling mentorship in the future. Mags.”

“Well, there is precedence, of course,” Mags said. While she answered promptly, Finnick could see that a guarded expression had crossed her face. She wasn’t clear on what angle on this topic would most likely help the victors and Haymitch. Haymitch, who would have to step in front of a camera once the hospital released him, working with what they delivered right now and telling the public whatever Snow expected. Haymitch, who wouldn’t retire because none of them were allowed to retire. “District Twelve is special even now, it’s the only district with only one mentor. I remember a time when there would always be a district or two that would not be able to provide their own mentors at all. District Twelve was the most recent district without a district victor as mentor, actually, before Haymitch himself won the second Quarter Quell. Four years before, Twelve’s first victor, Swagger – he had died in a terrible accident, I remember…”

“Oh, of course.” Flickerman shook his head sadly. “He fell and broke his neck, I believe…” 

“Yes,” Mags agreed with a nod of gratitude, although the way Finnick had been told the story, Shane “Swagger” March had fallen and broken his neck only insofar that he had kicked away the chair he had been standing on, a noose wrapped around said neck. “Swagger had died, so Lyra Ingram from District Two moved to Twelve as substitute…”

“I remember this, too,” Terence remarked. “It was expected that Lyra would stay at Twelve as second mentor even after Haymitch’s victory, as would have been common …”

“…but she returned to District Two at around the 53rd Games to mentor her daughter, who had decided to volunteer that year,” Mags finished with a nod. “Haymitch has been on his own since. Honestly, he has been doing commendably, all that considered. I also remember how District One used to mentor both Six and Ten, that was in the very early days when we had just started putting the mentoring system in place. It is the only district that has ever mentored three districts, including its own, at the same time.”

“So was there a call for mentors and they volunteered?” It took Finnick a second to recognize his own voice, because he hadn’t known he would open his mouth before he heard himself say the words. This wasn’t really supposed to be his show. Uneasily, he sat up in his chair, the cameras all on him now, while he spoke on, the words still just tumbling out of his mouth. “How did it work? Were they just chosen?” In the corner of his eye, he could see the other victors’ eyes turning towards him briefly when they wondered about his angle. 

“Now Finnick, that would be quite cruel,” Flickerman laughed. “Forcing a victor to move to another district and leave their loved ones behind just like that.” 

Finnick forced an unconcerned smile on his face, shrugging it off. “Seems to me like it would be a great honor,” he replied, half automatically, following the victors’ cardinal rule – _when in doubt, call it an honor._ “I’m sure a lot of victors would be greedy for the opportunity.”

“It is a great honor to be granted the chance,” Mags jumped in, her frail old hand grasping the arm of her chair ever so slightly. It hurt Finnick to see, knowing she was trying to help him out before he could do something stupid. But he didn’t want to be stopped. He suddenly really didn’t want to be stopped. Something was taking shape in his head – a wild opportunity opening up in front of him, one he couldn’t quite believe he was making out. “It is such a great responsibility, representing another district. So yes, Caesar is quite right, of course. Each of them volunteered.”

 _It was punishment for all of them._ Finnick knew that was what Mags’ eyes would tell him if he wasn’t refusing to look; he was focusing on Flickerman instead with an expression of casual interest. _They had said or done something wrong, their district had loved them a little too much, journalists couldn’t ignore their lovers anymore when they were supposed to stay available for the Capitol._ Lyra Ingram from District Two – a Career! – could only have been sent to District Twelve for punishment. And when she’d had the gall to get the job done, producing a victor that quickly, she had been punished again by seeing her daughter off to the Games. 

Little surges of adrenaline were being released into his bloodstream steadily, Finnick could feel it from the way he suddenly felt vigilant and awake, goose bumps appearing all over his body although he outwardly appeared calm. In a way, he even felt calm on the inside – the way he had felt calm when he threw that net and sent that trident after it, knowing that that tribute would die and he’d win. 

_This will work._

Something important was happening here, something earthshaking. It was just that nobody except Finnick was seeing it. But he was acutely aware that all the cameras around him were capturing the way he was lounging in his chair, every twitch of his face. Nobody had seen the opportunities in his arena except him, either. Nobody had known how to _play_ that field except him. He had had to wait twenty-three excruciating days for those opportunities to blossom, but when they had come, his aim had been steady. He’d been prepared in ways the other tributes hadn’t been; they’d thought him just a little fourteen-year-old non-volunteer.

The studio lights were burning down on him, so hot that he might as well have been back in Four at the height of summer, the trickle of a small pearl of sweat running down underneath his perfectly styled hair. If he moved his head slightly, it would change direction and run past his ear towards his Adam’s apple, prompt the camera to capture it. Everybody’s eyes would be on that.

Every motion appeared larger than it should be. Finnick was used to playing to the cameras, he did it instinctually by now – Snow had made clear to him early on that it would be his duty to entertain, to satisfy, or people would die. So entertain Finnick did.

But that just meant that he knew exactly what angles to play and what results to expect when he did. All victors did. President Snow had never forbidden him _this._

President Snow had never forbidden anybody to _volunteer_. 

His heart was pounding in his chest, no matter the little image of the studio camera next to him showed him that he still looked perfectly casual. 

A victor would be made _to leave their native district._

Later on, Finnick would remember every second of these moments the way he still remembered every second of his Games, circling that tribute, throwing that net, the way the vines had slid over all the right callouses of his palm.

He would try to tell himself he was doing it for people like Mags, with her wife Dana and their crowd of children that they’d all adopted from the community home, never meaning to but then still falling in love with another little one every time they went there. His district’s Annie Cresta, who he barely knew but who he still knew wasn’t in any state to travel, tucked away safely on Victors’ Rock and insulting Snow by existing, because she couldn’t be sold. Haymitch, who deserved somebody who liked him rather than some snobbish failed Career who’d committed the crime of being too bland. 

All of that would be a lie, though. 

He was doing it for himself.

Because any victor, given the chance, would have taken the opportunity to run away. 

“It was different in those days, I imagine,” Chaff idly said. “It’s pretty hard to imagine mentoring a district not your own.”

Flickerman chuckled. “Are you telling us you aren’t that sportsmanlike, Chaff?”

Chaff gave him a lopsided grin. “Didn’t win my Games with good sportsmanship, now did I?”

“That wouldn’t be true for any of us,” Finnick cut him short. 

It was only in moments like this anymore that he felt like his body was his own, starkly aware of how it still was such a powerful weapon, how he could still use it to kill if need be even seven years after he’d won. 

Very consciously, he drew a breath and released it again like he would before he attacked.

Chaff was throwing him a sharp look, his face guarded now – the expression of a tribute suspecting that his alliance was falling apart. 

Finnick relaxed into an even more casual stance, giving him barely more than a glance. 

In his Games, the world had been a tunnel as well. He’d seen everything, but nothing except his opponents reactions had penetrated. All of him had geared up for that wild power rush he knew was coming, fourteen-year-old menace poised to scream and scream and kill and to be in perfect control of the world. Of everything and everybody in the whole world.

Mags was glancing at him now, concerned and alert, in the corner of his eye. 

He didn’t turn to reassure her, though. 

Flickerman laughed. 

“Careful, Finnick,” he teased. “It will sound as if _somebody_ here is trying to apply for the job.” He winked at the audience, who laughed with him. 

Finnick smiled at him.

 _The Capitol loves me,_ he reminded himself, steeling himself for battle. _It’d let me do anything if I’ll just be on camera for them to see._ President Snow would have to start letting him mentor regularly soon to satisfy that desire, he knew. Public dates wouldn’t suffice forever. Last year had been his test run, and they’d have him do it for years to come starting next Games. Mentoring for Twelve, though, would be even better. That was exactly why Snow would let him get away with it. 

All the crowd needed was an introduction to the idea, a nudge in the right direction and it would all work out on its own. Finnick knew how to give them _that._

Leisurely, Finnick made sure the cameras would capture him at his most beautiful. His hand idly gliding over his chest, he took care to move up his shirt, exposing just an inch of skin as if it was by accident. From the other side of the circle of chairs, Flickerman’s eyes fluttered there. 

It was his strongest weapon; he’d long since moved past feeling anything about it. There was nothing that could ever transform him back into a decent human being again, anyway. 

“Actually,” he said, rolling the word off his tongue like it meant nothing. “I for one would absolutely love to get the chance.” 

“Oh?” Flickerman said indulgently, leaning forward in interest. It was surprising, considering how good that man was at his job, but he truly didn’t seem to see it coming. 

Finnick shrugged. “I’d be so honored.” The words were like honey. “And just thinking about what a great challenge it would be. District Twelve hasn’t won in how long, twenty years? About time the next generation gets to try their hand. 

“You’ve said it yourself, Caesar, I haven’t been contributing enough. But I don’t get overwhelmed easily. I’m up for it. I haven’t got a tribute this year, I’m in the Capitol. You want me to mentor for Twelve?” He threw the crowd a lazy smile before turning back to Flickerman. A roar of applause was their reply. “Sure. Why not?”

He said more then, working his way through stock phrases of challenges and honor and an opportunity to prove himself to the city he loved. None of it was new. It was like using a weapon he’d practiced with all his life, knowing exactly how it was balanced. Like wielding his trident. 

Making love to the Capitol with words. 

Once he’d reached his little climax of, “Let me volunteer for the job here and now,” there was no stopping the crowd anymore. 

_It’s like I never left the arena,_ he thought when applause crashed over him like a wave.

He would, without a doubt, find himself moving to District Twelve. 

Very slowly, Finnick relaxed back into his seat. 

* * *

“Finnick,” Mags said softly, reaching up to take his face into both of her hands. “Finnick, lad, what did you just do?”

Instead of replying, Finnick closed his eyes and turned his head away. 

_Never again,_ he thought. Mags, his parents, Keanu and Perri – his older brothers who both looked at him as if he’d gone Capitol – Coral, his kid sister who was of Reaping age now and slowly figuring out what exactly it meant when he was shown with all those movie stars and politicians on the television. All these people who meant so much to him that it hurt to think about. Soon, he would never have to look at any of them ever again. So he had become … he’d become _that man_ , so what… at least his family wouldn’t have to see it.

They’d never learn his secrets, how fucked up he’d become. The things he thought about when he was alone at night, waking up from those dreams he’d never told anybody about.

It was in the backstage of the _Arena Talk_ studio, a minute before Mags would have to leave as Chaff and Terence already had, her car waiting to bring her back to her tribute at the Training Center. A small television was running in a corner of the room, a crowd of journalists already searching the streets for the common man to interview about what they thought of the idea, Finnick Odair mentoring for Haymitch Abernathy’s futile district. Everybody seemed to love it. People were calling him competent, referring to last year’s Games, though all that was code for ‘hot.’

He had thrown a snowball on the show, but like he had foreseen, it was already growing into an avalanche – into a media event. The reporters had greedily picked it up. It hadn’t even been half an hour. But the Capitol had always been quick on the uptake.

Mags sighed, sounding helpless and tiny and old. “I don’t understand at all,” she professed. “But I wish I could come with you at least.” As if she didn’t have a family back home.

“I’m not a child,” Finnick said back, reflexively. 

“No,” Mags replied sadly behind him. “I wish you had been allowed to be, though.”

A car was waiting for Finnick, too. His would be driven by Peacekeepers however, and they wouldn’t be escorting him to the Training Center, either. It would bring him to the Presidential Mansion, and it had already been waiting for him when he left the stage. 

President Snow wanted a word.


	4. Chapter 3: Behind The Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No,” Snow informed him in a soft voice. “Mr. Abernathy will be sober, and he will very much not be boring.”_

### Chapter 3: Behind The Scenes

President Snow’s office was located at the highest spot right underneath the dazzling opalescent dome crowning his mansion. From earlier visits, Finnick knew that the glass doors behind his desk led to a balcony that overlooked all of the Capitol, since all the other tall buildings were located in such a way that they couldn’t obstruct the president’s view of the city. During daylight hours, the sun would shine brightly through those windows, rendering Snow at his desk a well-calculated looming silhouette. 

Now, all Finnick could see outside were faint twinkling city lights in the dark, while Snow’s face with its puffy lips was illuminated by the soft red glow of a delicately crafted District One desk lamp. It created a strange air of intimacy, highlighting all the details of Snow’s face. All of his skin always seemed stretched too tight, like the face of a monster out of a nightmare, with too many bones and too big eyes; Finnick remembered the terrified fascination that had captivated him whenever he had looked at Snow from up close as a fourteen-year-old, a first impression that he had never quite managed to overcome. People Snow’s age didn’t see a stylist anymore; they were tended to what was called a face designer. 

Snow’s lips seemed to stretch wider when he smiled, in equal parts pleasant, empty and disturbing. 

“Well, well, Mr. Odair,” he said, having waited for Finnick to take the proffered seat across the desk. Finnick never quite knew why he bothered, since both of them were clear on how Snow owned all of the world and Finnick just attended it as his barely-tolerated guest. “Well. Let me congratulate you on your performance tonight. It looks like Panem couldn’t be more in love with you right now.” 

There was nothing Finnick could have said in reply without making a fool of himself, so he didn’t. Instead, he kept his focus on sitting straight – sitting proudly – but not too straight, like he would on the television if he wanted to show that he wasn’t afraid. It was a futile attempt at preserving his dignity. There was no dignity in this office. Both of them knew that, too. There never even seemed to be enough air here, and he was fighting the dissociative sensation of needing to catch his breath although it remained steady. People were killed in this office, many times a day, by signatures and phone calls. Everybody he loved could be amongst them at any time. _Mom. Dad. Mags. KeanuPerriCoralUncleLauroUncleJaime._

President Snow gave him a long-suffering look, like an uncle would give his misbehaving nephew. “I’m going to skip the pleasantries, Mr. Odair. We’ve known each other for a while, after all. We’ve discussed your obligations many a time, and I have never before had an impression that you were trying to disobey me. Now, my advisors are warning me that you must obviously just have been biding your time. I have been telling them you weren’t. You love your dear parents and siblings too much for that.” 

He used the pause to reach for an elegant porcelain teapot, pouring himself a cup without hurry and eventually throwing Finnick a questioning glance. 

So Finnick nodded, working hard on loosening his jaw so that he could speak. “Yes,” he agreed tonelessly. “I do.”

“You do.” Snow nodded, taking his time with his tea and only continuing after he had taken a small sip from it, softly blowing the steam away with puffed pursed lips. “You and I both, Mr. Odair, know that this round is to you. I’m not even going to go into detail about your various fan clubs setting up websites to support your application. My media advisor has already been here, begging on her knees before this very desk to let you volunteer for District Twelve, while displaying a striking disregard of district politics. I cannot not let you leave for District Twelve. It would leave people dissatisfied. I don’t like dissatisfied people. It makes them restless.” Holding his quaint small cup with the fingertips of both strong hands, he gave Finnick a serious look. “Why do you want to live in District Twelve?”

“I’d like the change of scenery,” Finnick said. His first instinct was saying that he wanted to help Haymitch, but he discarded that reply immediately. Haymitch was a very small part of this. It never paid to keep Snow up to date about your friendships and alliances, either. But a snarky comeback was never enough in this office, so he added, “It’s the only chance I’ll ever get to move to another district,” and that was so true that it hurt. 

It was so true that Finnick knew some of it had shown on his face. He hated it when he couldn’t hide behind the small mercy of the mask that he was usually allowed to wear. The way the President’s sharp eyes were watching him, he didn’t miss any of that. 

“Indeed,” Snow said abruptly. “Like Caesar Flickerman pointed out on the air, you have been very busy making new friends in the Capitol during your most recent visits.”

Just like that, Finnick grew cold. He always did when Snow brought up the movie stars and the other people from the high society he sold Finnick to. One day, he imagined, he would be an eighty-year-old wreck of a man and he still would grow cold like that if Snow inquired about this or that ‘patron’ – inconceivable a world where Snow would have died of old age.

“I follow the schedules you have sent to me,” he carefully replied. 

“Yes, you do,” Snow agreed. “You do so very well. I have never had any reason to complain about that until now.” Giving Finnick a searching look – again looking more like a suspicious uncle than a murderer – he added, “This sudden wanderlust wouldn’t be part of any misguided plan to avoid those obligations in the future?”

Finnick suppressed a childish urge to squirm in his seat. He hadn’t done anything wrong, as far as Snow’s rules were concerned. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t and he never would have dared speak up on that show otherwise. “I don’t understand,” he managed.

Snow smiled thinly, all bones. “What a relief to hear,” he said without even a trace of sarcasm. “I did not expect you to see patrons while you were on mentoring duty last year, but do not think that mentoring a more needy district will be the way to reducing the number of your appointments. You may start mentoring, on your own for this Hunger Games and alongside Mr. Abernathy in the future, but you will be attending to the same number of patrons you would have seen otherwise and you will find a way of juggling those responsibilities satisfactorily on your own initiative. I would be very displeased if your monetary value should fall due to complaints about your performance.”

“Understood,” Finnick said automatically, mouth dry, and couldn’t help but point out with a trace of desperation, although he hated himself a lot for it, “But mentoring for District Twelve will make me more popular. I’ll be more valuable than before.”

“I should hope so. The Capitol knows I’m not making any money from Mr. Abernathy anymore.”

“He gave the media a good story just now.”

“A good story doesn’t pay any bills. It merely distracts from them for a while.” Snow said it as if he was impatient with Finnick’s lack of business acumen, although – a little voice in the back of Finnick’s head supplied acidly – if sleeping around the Capitol on Snow’s orders had taught him one thing, it was a good grasp on the imbalances of supply and demand. 

“I wasn’t aware that you and Mr. Abernathy are this close, either,” Snow remarked coldly. 

Finnick blinked. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t but wonder whether that was real displeasure in Snow’s face at not knowing about that supposed tight friendship. “We’re both victors.” He said it casually, like it was no big deal. _We’re comrades in arms, fuck you,_ he thought, while anger surged through him. _We’re at war with you, we’ll never stop competing for the right to kill you._

When Snow shot him an inquiring look, Finnick raised his chin. 

Sometimes he wondered if a man like Snow could even understand a concept like camaraderie.

So he wasn’t surprised when Snow thoughtfully nodded a moment later, as if he had had to process it in his head first. “You are at that,” he said, taking another sip of his tea and looking pleased when it had cooled off to a satisfactory degree. “So. Here is what I told my advisors about you, Mr. Odair. I told them that you surely must have been acting out of concern for your dear friend Mr. Abernathy, rather than trying to stage some kind of poorly executed coup d’état.” 

Finnick had to stop himself from holding his breath when Snow paused for effect. The President looked at him as if he knew exactly what Finnick thought, gracing him with that thin over-stretched smile again. 

This was it, Finnick knew. Here was the price he’d have to pay. 

Because there was always a price. 

A wave of panic hit him, out of nowhere; his hand tightened around the armrest. Suddenly he was sure that he’d miscalculated and that the nightmare scenarios that had seemed inconceivable an hour before would come true – that Snow would have his mom or Coral or Keanu killed just to remind him that he could. Instinct had told him that Snow wouldn’t do that when Finnick hadn’t done anything _wrong_ , when it hadn’t broken that psychopathic honor system the man lived by, but what if he’d gotten too cocky, if he’d misjudged that … 

His mouth was so dry that his tongue threatened to stick to the roof of his mouth.

“I told my advisors that you would be perfectly willing to take personal responsibility for Mr. Abernathy’s sobriety,” Snow said pleasantly. “You will have nursed him back to full mentorship in no time at all. Full mentorship alongside you, naturally, so to heed the doctors’ advice. And you will vouch for that promise of success with the lives of your family back home in District Four. It would be very tragic indeed if sweet Coral was reaped in a year without volunteers, after all.”

 _Oh shit._ That wasn’t the worst that could have happened, no live feed cutting to the execution of his father or Uncle Lauro’s burning shrimper like he had suddenly envisioned. But he hadn’t seen it coming. 

Although he should have. And it was still bad. 

There were a lot of different ways in which Finnick respected Haymitch, for being a good mentor despite his quota and a good friend and always a protector of the younger victors when he was sober enough, but Haymitch was a drunk. The media hadn’t played that part up – it had never even seen Haymitch the way the victors had, year after year after year. The mere thought of the lives of his family relying on somebody other than himself, relying on Haymitch’s will to stay _sober_ when being sober was probably the last thing Haymitch would ever be interested in… 

When he looked up, the man’s too red tongue had darted out to wet his lips. 

Snow smiled like a wolf. “Do not think I will be satisfied with an impression of sobriety for the cameras like it sufficed for Terence DiAngelo thirty years ago because frankly, Mr. DiAngelo was boring.” _How petty,_ a dazed part of Finnick thought. _Not calling him Dr. DiAngelo when he earned that degree with his victory money._ But that was just another reminder of a victor who had saved himself by telling the Capitol stories, and Snow couldn’t have been impressed with that. “No,” Snow was informing him now in a soft voice. “Mr. Abernathy _will_ be sober and he will very much not be boring. He will finally be performing as mentor again and stop making a joke out of the Games by all this blatant disrespect he has been showing us for years. Do not think I won’t know if you two should try to fool me, Mr. Odair. I’m very hard to fool.”

Finnick felt himself nodding, unable to stop the chills that just kept running down his spine. _You knew it would be bad,_ he reminded himself. _You knew you’d get in trouble._ But he’d still thought that he _himself_ would have to pay up. Snow would tell him to do something, something disgusting, most likely send him to some special client, and it would be awful, but he would deliver. He’d deliver, he’d have his breakdown later in private were nobody could see and he’d have all the time in the world, far away in District Twelve, where nobody would _care,_ to put himself back together. That was what he _did._ He did it every year.

Haymitch was an _addict_. Finnick had never once seen him entirely sober. And the journalists were right because it _was_ a disease and everybody with brains knew that the Games had made Haymitch like that, except the Games wouldn’t stop ever. Finnick knew this was Snow’s way of making Haymitch pay for getting drunk like that at a Reaping, too. But he wasn’t sure that Haymitch could stop drinking. Finnick hadn’t seen him do it when he’d had an okay tribute in the running three years back, when Johanna’s kid sister had been reaped and she’d looked to him for help, not the year Chaff had bullied Beetee into tweaking Haymitch’s console to play some kind of weird Capitol song as a tasteless anniversary present. Thinking of the dazed alcoholic lying in his ruins of a house, for all of Panem to see on the television, he wasn’t even sure Haymitch would ever again find a reason to stay sober.

Desperately, Finnick cast about in his mind whether he knew of any family or friends Haymitch would have had left to protect – there had to have been someone, because he knew for a fact Haymitch had been sold for a couple of years after his victory just like Finnick was now. But they had to have been cousins or schoolmates because all he could think of now was the tape of the Abernathy execution, mother and brother and girlfriend dead, dead, dead, for Haymitch outsmarting the Games. 

_Fuck._ Knowing up front that something would be bad had never stopped him from hating every minute of it. 

“Mr. Odair?” Snow prompted him expectantly. 

Finnick tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. “Of course. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Any failure on Mr. Abernathy’s part will be considered a failure on your part.”

“Yes.”

“You will keep him healthy and sober like the people of the Capitol are hoping you will.”

“Gladly.” Of course, he would have tried keeping Haymitch together to his best ability anyway, but that was just part of the joke. It had never mattered what he would have done, had he had the choice. The Capitol told stories on its television, and some of them were even true. Addiction really was a disease. Of course, Finnick wanted to do well as Twelve mentor. But that was just the thing, it wasn’t about truth and lies. It was about what the Capitol wanted, because what the Capitol wanted, it got. What President Snow wanted, President Snow always got. 

In the corner of his eye, Finnick could see Snow putting down his tea cup that would probably be empty, because his timing was impeccable, folding his hands on his desk and finding a more comfortable sitting position while he observed Finnick with interest. Finnick himself was staring at a spot on the desk. It was made of heavy oak like the furniture in his father’s study, District Seven’s finest carpentry, but unlike his father’s desk, the spot that he was focusing on was both clean and empty – as if it wasn’t quite a part of reality, which never was either of these things. 

_Almost over now,_ he told himself. 

These meetings were always bad, no matter why they took place. He always knew, before they were over, that he wouldn’t be able to sleep properly for days. But he could always keep telling himself that all of them _did_ end. He made it through them intact every time. More or less intact. 

The fear of hurting his family was a constant in Finnick’s life these days, an ancient thing throbbing on in the background. Some days he even forgot it was there. Some days, he thought he didn’t have to fear hurting anybody because he wouldn’t even know how to not be Snow’s whore. He hadn’t been anything else for a third of his life. That was how he had known that Snow wouldn’t touch his family this time – Snow wouldn’t want to change a running system.

When Snow spoke again, Finnick thought that he wouldn’t be surprised if District Three had invented some sort of telepathic device for him because he had yet again followed Finnick’s thoughts. Followed them and twisted them into something even uglier.

“I’m going to need a bit of reassurance from you, Mr. Odair,” the President very calmly said. “Once you walk out of this office, I want both of us to be very clear on who owns who in this room, even though you were granted your wish.”

“Okay?” Finnick said. 

There was a pause, maybe for Snow to lick his lips again with his bloody tongue or maybe for him to rearrange himself in his chair – maybe, a sickening lascivious part of Finnick would supply afterwards, getting comfortable for the show. 

“Well, then. Open your pants and pleasure yourself for me to see.”

Finnick thought he’d never gotten this cold – as if all the heat had been drained from the room. 

Despite himself, he raised his head to look Snow in the eye. 

It was as if reality had broken apart, crumbling down all around him. After all the things that had been done to him by tributes, clients and Snow himself through the years, Finnick still was convinced he couldn’t have heard right. 

“What?”

All the victors knew the President would never touch you. He’d fuck with your mind, and he was married to some woman, but he didn’t ever do that to a victor physically, he was like a monk in that way. It didn’t pay for people to see victors with mussed hair and swollen lips walking out of his office. It probably just wasn’t what he got off on. He didn’t _do_ that. 

Snow leaned forward ever so slightly, moving his weight until it rested on his elbows. It wrinkled the shoulder pads of his suit. 

“Open your pants and touch yourself until you orgasm,” he repeated in a tone of voice that sounded both clinical and curious, curious to see, maybe, what would happen next. “That is, after all, the particular service that continues to make you so valuable to me, isn’t it? Prove to me that you will keep delivering what I am asking of you, no matter the circumstances.”

Those chills were suddenly back. 

_I don’t think I can._ He wanted to say it rationally, he wanted to argue with facts, even though just hearing the words in his head made his chest burn. He wasn’t sure whether that was from shame or helplessness. 

He didn’t think he could get an erection in this office. 

But that was just another thing you didn’t get to say to Snow. 

You didn’t get to say, _I can’t._

There was no dignity in this office, Finnick had known that when he first walked in. 

But somehow, while they were talking, he’d still managed to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has recently been pointed out to me that there are quite a lot of people who'd rather not write a fic comment at all instead of a short one, because they think the writers won't be interested in short comments. So let me just state for the record that I'm not one of them (how could anybody not want a comment!). I'd adore any and all kinds of reactions. If you just sent me a ":-)" or a couple of exclamation marks or something, I'd still be delighted. Just to be clear about that. :)


	5. Chapter 4: Dancing On The Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well this is new,” Chaff said when Finnick gingerly sat down at the console next to his._

### Chapter 4: Dancing On The Ice

The Twelve girl who had cried so hard through her Reaping was called Bee Donally. Like her district partner, she came from a place called Seam and had just turned thirteen, although she was so starved that she rather looked like nine years old, skinny as a stick and only half of Finnick’s size. Preferring to hide either behind her rich long hair or behind her district partner, she still seemed to fight tears whenever she wasn’t looking at Finnick with big, adoring, hopeful eyes that said she needed everything he said about her odds to be true. She didn’t act like thirteen, and there was no way of making her look more mature for the cameras. 

The boy, fifteen-year-old Raif Knapweed, mostly acted suspicious towards Finnick – and everybody else – in a way that reminded Finnick of a scowling young Haymitch on the tape of his Quell. It took a long, progressively desperate talk with him on the necessities of survival before Raif even shared that he’d acquired his limp when he busted his knee falling off a tree as a child; at least that meant he was used to working around the disability by now, moving with startling agility – though not startling enough for him to ever stand a chance. Once they reached that point with each other, Finnick – who usually would have called himself good with children – was ready to cry from relief himself. 

Both children had the olive skin and the black curls that Finnick had seen in at least one Twelve tribute of every Games he could remember; Bee and Raif might as well have been Haymitch’s niece and nephew. Though when he finally got around to asking ever-helpful Effie Trinket about it, the escort didn’t know what it said about their background either, why most Twelve tributes looked like that until sometimes, they just didn’t. When he casually asked Raif if there was any relation between him and Haymitch, Raif gave him his only laugh all week, startled and ugly in disquieting way, because despite his moodiness, there wasn’t anything cruel about Raif. 

There was little chance that either of these two would even make it to the Final Eight. Yet Finnick swore to himself to do everything in his power to give them a fighting chance. Both Haymitch in his hospital bed and the families counting on him in his new district should see that he was trying his hardest to save those children. That was why he’d come, as far as Twelve was concerned. He’d be a new face in that district. Change always meant a flicker of new hope, no matter how jaded people acted – Mags had taught him that. He wouldn’t let them down.

Johanna Mason had asked him if it made him feel like a traitor, going and fighting for the lives of tributes from another district like a mercenary. It meant that two children from Four would die, if one from Twelve survived. 

But Finnick knew he couldn’t afford to look at it like that. None of his predecessors had when they moved to coach another district. Every Hunger Games killed twenty-three children; the mentors merely served as props, because nothing they did would change that. None of those children deserved to die; everything about the Games was a farce. He might as well even out the odds. 

That was certainly how the Twelve escort looked at it. Styled in accordance with the latest Capitol fashion, Effie wore a massive yellow wig and endless yellow heels. When she welcomed him to the Twelve floor, she beamed at him as if the sun was rising after years in coal-black darkness.

Giving her a friendly smile and witnessing a glow spreading on her face with some detachment, Finnick decided that Effie and he would get along just fine. While it seemed she had a crush on his body, it was by far outweighed by her crush on success.

“Normally Haymitch would have prepared the tributes for the opening ceremony,” Effie had informed him after she was done professing her excitement about his decision to mentor for Twelve. She got down to business with vigor. “As well as was still in Haymitch’s power, anyway,” she added with a wrinkled nose. “But since it was just the three of us, I moved the etiquette lessons _up_ …” Her voice flipped upwards with that word. “…so the tributes are all yours now full-time, ready for strategy mentoring.” During her next words, she raised her chin defensively. “There hasn’t been any special attention paid to either tribute yet, not beyond coverage about you, though I have been monitoring all media activity closely. But that is quite usual for District Twelve. We can only expect attention at a later point.” She sniffed indignantly. “That sad old networks website of Haymitch’s last surviving fans, on the other hand, has been seeing rather a lot of visitors. All vultures, I assume.”

Like Finnick, Effie tried visiting Haymitch multiple times throughout the training week. But even Finnick’s victor status – and attempts at flirting his way in – wouldn’t pay for a ticket past the receptionist. 

“Sure, it would have been great to talk to Haymitch,” Finnick once told the reporters lurking in front of the facility, intercepting him with questions greedily. “He is one of the most experienced mentors of the Games, he didn’t get so overworked without reason, and I want to do his – our – district justice. But I guess the doctors are right, he needs to focus on his health. I hope he trusts me to take care of Raif and Bee for him. There is a lot of potential hidden in them.” _To be a baker or a nurse._ “I don’t doubt that Haymitch would see it, too.”

“But isn’t it true that you have only mentored once so far, during the 71st Hunger Games?” one of the journalists called from the back of the crowd. “How will you compensate for that lack of experience without Haymitch’s aid?”

Finnick gave her his sweetest smile. “True, I did,” he agreed. “But my tribute made Final Four. He almost won.” His tribute had also been an eighteen-year-old, heavily muscular volunteer and the best close combat fighter in all of his district, but Finnick didn’t need mentoring experience to know not to point that out. Mentors had to market their own skill as much as their tributes’. “Don’t forget I’ve been trained by Mags,” he added cheekily. “That’s worth more than a dozen Games.”

It was a special interview to give, because everything he said in it was true.

* * *

When the single training sessions rolled around at the end of the week, Finnick and Effie had settled into a routine. Like District Four’s Honestia always had, Effie would keep track of schedules and mentoring requirements, monitoring the attention Raif and Bee were getting in the media and on the networks, betting office developments. Meanwhile, Finnick would try to chat up sponsors at the evening events and see clients afterwards, ignoring Effie’s frowns – she apparently thought he was partying. It was a grim affair; the sponsors who had been happy to invite him for drinks a year ago were now trying to make vague excuses or telling him to call them on the fourth or fifth day of the Games at the earliest. At least some were ready to listen when they wouldn’t have spoken to Haymitch, charmed by his flirting or feeling guilty about having bought him, especially if it had been a hush-hush affair before he’d turned sixteen. With his jaw clenched, Finnick decided that he might as well get something positive out of that now. 

President Snow had lost no time in starting to send the clients his way, a wild variety of people, most of whom had very particular ideas about how to have a good time. The message was clear – Finnick was sold on special discount this season. Still, he took it with a sense of stoicism that he hadn’t been able to achieve last year. Pushed over the hood of a car, against the pane of a window, being told to be loud so that everybody would hear, he almost felt a rush of power. Snow really thought Finnick had done all this to get out of some of the whoring. For the first time since he’d won his Games, the President hadn’t at all understood what was going on in his head. He wasn’t getting to Finnick where it hurt him most. 

Finnick tried not to dwell on how seeing all those clients even made things feel easier, at least a little bit. They provided a familiar pattern while he tried getting comfortable in his new bed in his new quarters, when he found himself hesitating about mentoring choices without having Mags to reassure him. The clients were old news compared to that, and his choices about how to act around them couldn’t ever accidentally get his tributes killed. He was _good_ at sex. It reminded him of all the other things he was good at. 

_So it’s sick,_ he grimly thought. _So what. I’ll take it, anyway. Everything in this whole world is sick._

His stylist started slipping him little pink wake-up pills after the fourth day. That and all the coffee meant he just dropped on a couch at every opportunity, never dreaming anymore. 

Finnick could deal as long as he didn’t have to dream. 

When the single training sessions came about, Bee returned from hers crying. Those big tears just running down her face silently, she scurried over to Finnick and wrapped her arms around his waist, asking to be held. She was so small that her head barely came to rest on his sternum. Finnick crouched down to her, exchanging a helpless look with a crushed Effie while muttering encouraging things and rubbing her back and missing his kid sister Coral so fiercely that it hurt him physically. 

When Raif returned fifteen minutes after her, he was looking even grimmer and scowling even more than usual. Refusing to leave Bee’s side all evening, he snapped at any Avox who dared startling her, while she curled up on the sofa next to him like a child. The louder he muttered swearwords under his breath, the less inclined she seemed to cry. 

“I have to ask,” Effie gingerly whispered at Finnick before they all sat down to watch the training score announcement together. “Is it wise? Encouraging them to bond like that? What if it comes down to the two of them in the arena?” She lowered her voice even more at those words, as if she was barely able to picture that tragic event.

It would forever startle Finnick that Capitol people could ask him questions like that without finding anything wrong with the overall concept. 

“Not their biggest problem,” he just told her with a shake of his head, because truth was, if Bee and Raif ever made it that far, they would be blessed. Even if they’d manage to hide out together for the whole Games, staying away from other tributes, chances were that one of them would be killed by mutts or arena surprises on the way. All three of them – Bee, Raif and Effie – seemed obsessed with that concept of one having to kill the other in the end, when Finnick didn’t even dare to hope for that scenario in his wildest dreams. He’d make either one of them betray the other three times over if that meant bringing one of them home. 

Bee had showed the Gamemakers the simple traps she had learned, but there was no covering up how ridiculously short and frail she was; she scored a three. It went a little smoother for Raif, who did better with his six than Finnick would have dared hope – rattling off the plants he’d memorized including ways of using them to kill, while showing that he wouldn’t hurt himself with a knife. His brains would be his only advantage. But he wasn’t another Wiress. He wasn’t even another Haymitch. 

Finnick had told his tributes to focus on learning survival skills during the week; he’d told them to spend all their time thinking of ways of using those survival skills to get other tributes in trouble. He’d said everything could be a weapon. He’d said, _all you have to do to win is stay alive._

He’d said a lot of things, but he knew what Haymitch had to have seen in the Twelve tributes in each of those twenty years he’d mentored, too: These children weren’t Careers. They didn’t know how to survive. They’d spent all of their lives in the desperate hope that this would never happen to them. 

You just couldn’t transform two sweet, starved children into killers in the course of one week. You shouldn’t have to live in a world where you were supposed to try.

* * *

“You’re fast,” Finnick told Bee seriously, looking her straight in the eye because he knew by now that that worked best with her. “You’re gonna be the smallest tribute in the arena, too, so you’ll be very hard to catch. Tell Flickerman that. It’s a way to stick out. And show him your smile. You have a beautiful smile.” 

Bee did smile then from underneath her mob of black hair. Finnick answered it encouragingly before he turned to Raif, who appeared sullen, of course. Though Finnick knew it would turn into something like aggression on camera like they had practiced; the boy had a strong survival instinct and despite outward appearance, he did know when it was best to follow orders. The few times he’d gone off script in his interactions with the other tributes during Training Week, it had actually ended up benefiting both him and Bee. 

“Show them you can be a fighter,” Finnick told him now. “Let them know that you’ve got other skills, they just weren’t relevant to the scores. Make it look like you’re holding something back. 

“Flickerman will be on your side,” he added, addressing both. “Follow his cues. He wants to make you look good, because that makes him look good, too. If he latches on to something, play along.”

 _“Such a pretty boy,”_ Flickerman still purred every time Finnick took him in his mouth, playing with his hair. Even now that Finnick hadn’t been a boy in forever. _“Can you take it in all the way?”_

An unwanted image of Raif at the crowning ceremony came to mind: ordered to the host’s dressing room despite his disability, getting on his knees despite his busted leg. Finnick shuddered, fighting to lock it down. He’d have plenty of time for a meltdown after the Games, he grimly reminded himself and didn’t, _didn’t_ think of what Snow had made him do in his office that night; this wasn’t the time. 

Raif pressed his lips together, half-heartedly kicking the table in front of the couch he was sitting on. He muttered something to himself. 

“What was that?” Finnick threw him a question. 

The boy shrugged it off. “Just not seeing why we’re even bothering with all this shit. I don’t _want_ them to like me or anything.”

“Your interviews determine how many sponsors you’ll get,” Finnick replied patiently. “Especially in the first few days. If you get good sponsors, that means food and weapons and survival. I’ll send you things you can use.”

“The boy from Two said Twelves should all just step off the platform before the gong,” Bee suddenly sputtered. 

“Shut up,” Raif hissed at her and gave her an annoyed brotherly shove. “He just wanted to make you cry.”

Bee’s lips were trembling. “He said he’ll make it quick if I run towards him in the bloodbath.”

“He’s an _ape_ ,” Raif said as if that settled it forever. 

Surprisingly, a giggle bubbled out of Bee. 

Working hard to not groan in frustration about all the work on their self-confidence going down the gutter yet again, Finnick tried focusing on the positive last part and worked hard on a smile.

“Raif is right,” he told Bee. “That’s Brutus’ tribute. I know for a fact that Brutus is just grumpy because Two won last year with Fulvius and Brutus won’t get good sponsors for this tribute, because that boy looks too much like Fulvius. That’ll be too boring.” Games Command at Two made brilliant strategy decisions sometimes – there was a reason no other district had ever managed three consecutives. But everybody knew they’d miscalculated this time. District One would be the bigger problem this year: They always told the better in-Games stories. And Finnick tried not to think about the fact that Four had produced only one volunteer this year, the girl. 

But Raif wasn’t privy to any of that and he just shrugged. “So what?” he said. “You want us to survive by telling jokes? Because we aren’t gonna be entertaining either while we’re dying.”

For a moment, Finnick felt like shaking the kid. It wasn’t his fault that Raif had been reaped in the middle of his grumpy teens, it wasn’t his fault that anybody was getting reaped and killed, but this wouldn’t help Bee. It had taken him _days_ until that girl had stopped panicking enough to even listen to him. 

Then he opened his mouth and closed it again at once, because he’d taken another look at Raif’s closed-off face and his clenched jaw and he realized, suddenly, that this Raif panicking now. He’d shut it all off and channeled it into his gloom but there was an interview coming and all of Panem would see, and it was all catching up with him. How little of a chance he really stood. How he and Bee would probably be dead in a week – one of them definitely would be. He was freaking. 

It made something in Finnick’s chest clench up, looking at them sitting there like that. 

He’d known what it would be like mentoring for a district like Twelve, he’d seen Haymitch and Chaff and Seeder going at it for years, plus Districts Five and Six, Eight and Nine, who had four victors each, at least. He’d heard the stories from the older Four victors, because Four’s run with the Careers was still a recent success story, that was why it was currently working so well; half of its victors had won in the last twenty years. 

But it still felt so much realer and harder when it was happening to him. These children would _die_. 

And Finnick was the only one who could stop it. 

_If Mags could make it work, I can make it work too,_ he firmly told himself what the old lady herself had pointed out to him when he’d been reaped. If old Mags had been able to win, she had said, a strong, self-confident young man like Finnick could do it just as well. _Look at Four now. Things can change._

He was Finnick fucking Odair, who all of Panem wanted to – and got to – touch. He had means that Haymitch had never even gotten close to. 

So he took a deep breath and gave Raif a serious long look, casting in his mind on how to communicate that. He needed those two kids in best fighting shape if they wanted to make it. He needed them to keep hoping. 

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. Remember Johanna Mason’s Games?”

He adopted a reasonable voice. While Raif just deepened his scowl as if sensing a trap, Bee shook her head, so Finnick addressed her. 

“She’s my very good friend, so I have this on good authority,” he told her. “Johanna had started crying when she was reaped, like you. She had long hair that always covered half her face, and she had a training score of only two. Even her mentor had given up on her. But she didn’t lose hope and she’d decided to show them. She spent all Games in hiding and made everybody believe that she was really that weak. But then she took out the last three tributes and won fair and square.” 

“I’ve seen her on the television,” Bee softly said. “She looks mean.”

“So her training score was a ruse,” Raif pointed out. “Ours really are fucked.”

Finnick conceded that point with a nod. “She played them, it’s true,” he agreed. “But that’s why you’ll remind Flickerman that you’ve got a lot of skills, even though they haven’t influenced your score. You’re smart like Johanna. You’ll find things you can use in that arena, things other people won’t notice.” _Like Haymitch’s ability to outthink the arena,_ he thought, but didn’t say aloud. If there was one spectacularly bad approach he could tell his tributes to take, it was that one. You played the arena by arena rules or you didn’t play anything ever again. 

Considering for a moment, he leaned forward in his chair. “Okay,” he said. “How’s this? Two years ago, Annie Cresta from my district won because a dam broke and everybody else drowned. She didn’t because she was such a good swimmer.” He started ticking them off his fingers. “A year after Johanna at the 68th Games, Kyle Akumi won without any weapons at all. He just used the traps and snares he’d learned in Training Week. He built the traps, then let his opponents spot him and led them towards them when they chased him. And he was fifteen like you, Raif. I know him well, he’s been mentor for Five ever since.” Sucked at it too, though he was getting better, still unafraid to absorb knowledge from every source he could find; his ever-tipsy partner Eleanor sure was no help. 

But Finnick, who had been coached on all the Games by Mags mercilessly before she let him get close to any real-life tributes, wasn’t done. Mags hadn’t just considered it practice for mentoring either, he was sure – she’d been trying to give him a purpose, something he could focus on and be good at. Something other than his looks for the cameras to zone in on. “58th Games,” he continued. “Ralda Cavalera won because she convinced the other tributes they could trust her. That took guts, but no training skills. She made three different alliances in her Games and poisoned each of her partners. You’re not going to be doing that to each other,” he added sternly, pointing his finger at each of them like a teacher, and Bee giggled again, just a small hiccup. Even Raif’s lips twitched at that ludicrous thought. “But you’ve got plant knowledge now that you can use if the occasion arises. 57th Games. Wiress Moore also built traps. Her arena was shaped like a maze and when it got dark, she was the only one who knew where to go because she’d memorized it so well. Five years before that, a lot of tributes were killed by a bear except Blight McCall, who climbed a tree in time. 

“The year after my Games, Clarity Rudder won by running although she was a Career. The mutts just caught everybody else faster. Your first victor from Twelve, Swagger March? Ever seen his Games?”

They shook their heads. _What do they teach those kids in school?_ Finnick thought, incredulous. 

“Well, he outlived everybody else because the mutts in his arena wouldn’t get close to him after he’d covered himself in mud. They couldn’t sense him anymore. He’d figured that out all by himself.” He’d also let his district partner walk into a trap on purpose, listening to her die, but that was another thing these children didn’t need to know. 

But that was enough information for the two of them to take in all at once, so Finnick let them mull it over. Fighting skills weren’t everything. A lot of it was chance. Every arena could end up lending itself to any tribute. He needed Raif and Bee to believe that. He needed them to forget everything they thought they knew about Twelve participation in the Games. The very last thing he needed them to do was get a good grasp on Games statistics. 

When Raif eventually squinted at him, it was with a suspicious look on his face. “But most of that was, like, way before you were even born.”

Finnick had to suppress a moment of relieved amusement. 

“Well, that’s true,” he agreed. “I’ve seen most of the Games on tape, see, so I know what you two are getting into. People don’t like remembering the survival skill victories because they aren’t as entertaining as the others, but truth is, one out of three Games doesn’t have a final fight at all. 

“Your one big task is making it out of the bloodbath,” he reminded them, now that they were listening to him again. “I don’t want either of you getting anywhere close to it. Raif, you’re not fast enough with that knee, don’t get anywhere near the Cornucopia. Bee, first thing on the platform, you look for Raif. You do the running for him. Always do what he tells you to, no questions asked.”

And if Raif would start figuring eventually that letting this sweet girl die would be a way of gaining sponsorship attention, there was nothing Finnick could do to stop it, in any case. 

Raif had a disability. But Bee would never make it on her own. 

Bee swallowed hard. “What if…” 

“No ifs,” he interrupted her. “Remember what I taught you. Have a good look at the arena and remember the rules about the food and the weather. Go looking for water, but stay away from places where you could drown. Don’t panic if the arena looks inhospitable or dangerous. Remember that kind of arena might give you an advantage.”

Then he gave them his best encouraging smile. “Now show me that you still remember what you’ll say to Caesar Flickerman tonight.”

* * *

“Well this is new,” Chaff said when Finnick gingerly sat down at the console next to his, reaching for a headset that was very clearly meant for somebody else’s head. 

“Don’t get too used to it,” he replied. “Haymitch will be back next year to claim this seat. It’s his. I’m only borrowing it this year to be closer to your sunny disposition.” Wiggling around uncomfortably, he added, “Certainly feels like it was built for his butt.”

The older victor threw him a glance. “You been to see him at the rehab place?” When Finnick shook his head, he grimaced. “Ah well. Good luck making it out of the bloodbath, and welcome to our side of the fence.”

It felt disorienting to sit on this side of Mentor Central, on the far end off to the left rather than in the cloud of Careers close to the entrance hall. Trying to get comfortable in a chair that really seemed to have molded into Haymitch’s shape, Finnick could feel how the other victors were throwing occasional glances at the probably equally disorienting sight of him at the console of the dark horse district. No district ever faired as badly as Twelve; even Eleven had managed three victors, all still alive and kicking.

Not a single sponsor had agreed to talk to him before his tributes had made it through the first and second day at least, not even the ones Finnick had slept with. 

The lights were dimmed and an announcer boomed at them to take their seats while the feeds above their heads blared to life, and then Templesmith was moving through the countdown. 

The camera had followed one of the Careers through the tube to the surface and all they could make out for a moment was a flurry of snow when twenty-four children in heavy winter parkas came to stand in a sea of white, heavy wind blasting snowflakes around. Finnick had never seen a blizzard before, not even in a Games recap, but he was pretty sure that he was looking at one now. 

Well, shit. 

Finnick cast for a contemporary Games featuring that amount of snow even in better weather and came up empty – there was very little from his studies of the Games that would help him with this. 

He swallowed hard. 

“So that’s pretty much it for us this year then,” Chaff remarked with the casualness of those who had to do that a lot. “They’ll never make it in that weather.”

“Do they have snow in District Twelve?” He turned to Chaff, realizing that he had no idea and, yup – there was a first spike of panic. Even his Victory Tour stop in Twelve – his first stop – was all a blur. He’d been so young, still in shock. Had there been snow? Now over at the Four station, he knew that Caramel and Mags were rapidly dialing back their expectations. None of their kids had ever seen a frostbite in their lives. Neither had Finnick, and he would never have survived in there. In an effort to clear it, he shook his head. _Focus. It’s a survival skill arena. You even told Bee and Raif, this might be good._ “I mean, do they have that much snow?”

“Fuck if I know.” Chaff shrugged. 

“Does District Twelve get blizzards? Anybody?” Finnick raised his voice to encompass all of Mentor Central; there was a moment of pause when people probably exchanged looks, though his eyes were trained on the screen and he didn’t see. _Shit but that’s a lot of snow._ This was throwing him, and he knew he was scrambling. He didn’t know anything about his odds. Things were happening down at the betting office in these sixty seconds and he had no idea about them.

“There was snow there last year’s Victory Tour!” the voice of District One’s Nymph shouted from all across the room. “There usually is, right?!”

“But they don’t get any skiing tourists, so it can’t be that cold!” another voice knew to share, who Finnick only recognized as District Nine’s Dune after the fact. “Those all go to us! We’re furthest up North, we get the frozen lakes!”

“There wasn’t any snow at all in Twelve during Chaff’s and my Tours,” Seeder knew to share, leaning forward to look at him past Chaff with concern in her eyes, not having to shout. 

Suppressing a curse, Finnick impatiently drummed his fingers on his armrest, then scanned the room for an Avox waiting to fulfill the mentors’ needs, finding one standing in a corner. Forgetting about his manners for a moment, he snapped a finger to get her attention. “Hey,” he said. “Can you pull up a, uhm, a map of Panem, and any information on the weather conditions in Twelve. As fast as you can make it, please.”

Rushing to nod her head at him, she raised her thumb at him and was gone. It made him wonder what district she was from. 

Finnick knew that there was nothing he could do, except lean back and follow the camera zooming through the wide expanse of the arena, mountain sites and groves drowning in heavy, frozen snow. A herd of what seemed to be heavy wild horses was racing across a plain at the far end of the field. It all was up to Bee, who looked tiny in her parka, and Raif, four platforms apart from her, stone-faced against the icy snowflakes freezing on the parts of his face not covered in a ski mask. But here Finnick was supposed to save the lives of these two kids while a whole district was looking on… _somewhere_ in Panem, probably trying to decide whether he could even be trusted with their children, while he didn’t even know if his limping boy would know how to move on the ice. 

Finnick hadn’t volunteered because he had a special liking of District Twelve or because there was anything he knew about it, really. He knew it was a small place full of starving black-haired children with olive skin, who tended to be dead after three days. But geography wasn’t his strong suit and he hadn’t even gotten around to looking it up on a map. 

Flickerman’s voice was now starting to blab at them through the public speakers, because Templesmith had reached “Three, two, one” and announced the start of the “72nd Hunger Games of Panem, may the odds be ever in your favor!” So the carnage was on. 

Forcing himself to keep his eyes trained on the screen, Finnick took a controlled long breath and let it out again. 

Two chairs over, Seeder was muttering little sighs to herself; her boy was the first to go, stumbling over something underneath the snow, it looked like, after sinking in too deep. He never saw Mags’ massive girl lunging at him, just reaching out from behind and twisting the boy’s neck in a well-practiced move before she struggled on towards the Cornucopia. 

Backpacks had been strewn all over the perimeter, more of them the closer they were located to the Cornucopia, which apparently held all the weaponry. Finnick sat up in his chair in alarm abruptly when he heard Raif’s voice in his earpiece, shouting at Bee to run and go for it. He didn’t even bother moving, just standing there on the platform and shouting. 

“Smart kids,” Chaff commented inexplicably, glancing away from his own girl for a moment. 

It was as if Bee had awoken from a stupor. Nonplussed, Finnick watched on as Raif’s unkind insults made her shake off her panic, running towards the backpacks like a cat and arriving there before anybody around her had made it, snatching off one, two – circling the bulky Seven male and ducking away under his swing without getting into real danger – freezing again on the spot and just staring after him until Raif’s voice was in the air again, telling her to “hurry the fuck up”. 

Finally, the boy was in motion, too, making his way towards the grove on his side of the arena as fast as he could. In no time, Bee had joined him, handing him one of the packs. Lighter than anybody, she had moved faster than the heavier tributes close to her because she didn’t sink into the frozen snow.

Finnick let go of the breath he had been holding.

“Shit,” he muttered, sheer relief flooding him. 

“And that looks like a strong district alliance for Finnick Odair’s Twelve tributes,” Flickerman’s voice was ringing in the distance from some main channel speaker. “Excellent teamwork.”

Raif had known this before Finnick. 

So they did have snow like that in Twelve. 

Without waiting to see who else was making it out there and how the conditions were shaking up the betting odds, Finnick had reached for his phone and started dialing. Blood was spreading on the screens in the corner of his eye, draining more and more patches of snow where tributes bled out. Everybody was running to the Cornucopia, scared into scavenging supplies by the weather. The death toll would be high this bloodbath. 

“Mathildo,” Finnick purred into the phone as soon as he heard the sponsor pick it up. “Mathildo, this is Finnick Odair, mentoring for District Twelve. I know I’m not supposed to be calling you this early in the Games and I don’t mean to steal any of your precious time, but are you seeing these two right now? Bee will be _dancing on the ice_ in that arena.”

Chaff was giving him a disbelieving look, letting Finnick know that he was laying it on thick. Finnick answered with an exaggerated shrug. 

“Well I don’t know about that,” he replied to the athlete, “But she sure will look beautiful while she does, and I know how much you love your visuals. Actually…” The Avox had reappeared, pushing a stash of papers in his lap. When he started fumbling through them with one hand, she pulled one up for him and placed it on top – the Panem map. Pinching the phone between his shoulder and chin, Finnick gave her a grateful smile, then counted, starting in the North. “…actually, did you know that District Twelve is one of our coldest districts? Yes, sir, it is the third coldest district of Panem. It’s the coal mining district, too, of course, so you could even say they’re Panem’s experts on heating, now couldn't you?

“What’s that, sir? Do they have horses?” Finnick covered the mouthpiece, giving Chaff a desperate look. “Do they have horses?” he mouthed. 

Chaff grimaced at him, spreading his arms in a gesture of _You’re seriously asking me?_ “They’ve got goats, pretty sure,” he muttered in a low dry voice. 

Well. Finnick wouldn’t have won the Games if he wouldn’t be willing to work with what he got, even though at the time that had mostly been Mags’ advice to be charming. “They have goats in Twelve,” he informed the sponsor, turning his head and the phone away when he heard Chaff guffaw. “Yessir. Well, they’re similar to horses. 

“They both have hooves and they move similarly. 

“Trust me, we know about these things in Four.

“Well, sir, you can do that but I promise you you’re not missing out on much. It’s just district detail. My tributes, anyway, are not going to make fools out of themselves with those horse mutts, and they’re basically the natives of this kind of arena. Think about it, sir. 

“Thank you, Mathildo, I will. _Very_ much looking forward to seeing you again, too.”

“You’re shameless,” Chaff stated when Finnick hung up and moved to call up the next number he’d saved on his console’s speed dial. 

Finnick answered with a wink, licking his lips. “That’s why they can’t get enough of me.”

Chaff just snorted again.


	6. Chapter 5: The Abernathy Exclusive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So, Haymitch,” said Cheeks, star reporter, taking an over-exaggerated deep breath for dramatics. “You’ve been throwing the Capitol in quite the frenzy these past two weeks, now haven’t you?”_

### Chapter 5: The Abernathy Exclusive

Nobody else died that day. The fourteen surviving tributes moved to find cover from the snow in caves hidden in the hills, in tree houses and brushwood so thick that sticks taken from the core could sometimes be used to build fires. Careers received gifts of blankets, lighters and kerosene. Both mentors and Games experts were struggling to predict how the weather conditions would influence the pace of the Games; tributes were forming alliances all over the arena, instinct telling them to stick close to other warm bodies, but building campfires and leaving snow trails would also make it harder to hide from the other packs. 

Bee and Raif had found a small pot in their backpacks that they could use to melt snow, some jerky rations and, most importantly, a box of lifeboat matches. Huddled up together under the tent that they shaped out of their parkas, they spent the first night underneath a rock ledge that diffused the smoke somewhat. Finnick himself fell asleep in Haymitch’s chair like he imagined the Twelve mentor having done many times; miraculously, Snow had left him without an appointment for that night. The arena couldn’t have given the two children a bigger advantage, he knew. When the blizzard had scared everybody into running towards the Cornucopia, Caramel’s tribute and – surprisingly – the One male had died in the carnage. The surviving One female and the Careers from Two had been intimidated into forming an alliance with Nine’s female, who’d thought on her feet and convinced them of her winter survival skills. Mags’ female volunteer was camping out with Johanna’s girl and the Six male, and there was another alliance in the making between the Ten tributes and Three’s surviving fourteen-year-old boy. 

The only tributes who had tried to survive on their own – Eight female and Chaff’s girl – were both dead by the dawn of Day Three. The former had frozen to death at night and the latter got lost in the snow, stumbling upon Three-Ten’s camp where she was stabbed by the fumbling Ten male, who didn’t quite seem to know what to do with that knife. _That could have been Raif’s kill,_ Finnick worried grimly, refusing to be moved. _It could even have been Bee’s._ A kill would have greatly improved the sponsorship situation. 

There was an uproar on Day Four when the Career alliance launched an attack on Four-Six-Seven, but instead of protecting her partners’ backs, Two female – a tall eighteen-year-old called Apollinara, a name everybody would soon know to remember – ran off in a panic to hide in a grove. Even Flickerman couldn’t make that look good. Her district partner and the One female died because of it. District One was out of the Games – their worst in over thirty years, Flickerman informed the audience with pity. 

Finnick was struggling to work sponsors every day, never failing to talk up his tributes whenever he had to leave his console either to see a client or to talk to the press. Day Four was when he sent Bee and Raif some more jerky and a good loaf of Twelve bread, something to remind them of home – fortunately the parachuteers had a library for stock recipes, because Finnick didn’t know anything about Twelve foods. The two children had been hiding from the field and from the vicious horse mutts roaming the grounds, but there were only so many edible plants they could uncover from under the snow. He watched them picking at the bread, discussing their families in the Seam in hushed voices.

Day Five proved to be the most boring Games day so far without any action amongst the starving and freezing tributes. The Gamemakers probably only didn’t stage an intervention because the news channels provided them with an exciting distraction from a different source.

Torturing victors was almost as much fun, after all. 

* * *

An unfriendly hand shook him awake. 

“Exclusive interview with Haymitch in five.” Johanna Mason was standing over the couch he had commandeered for his downtime, looking down at him with an unkind face. “Thought you’d want to see.”

“What?” Finnick tiredly rubbed his face. Sleep. These days, all he wanted was sleep. He’d even considered Chaff’s ridiculous notion from the talk show, using booze to stay awake. The way Chaff always seemed to have a helpful bottle at the ready, he could certainly see how that temptation might have become too strong for Haymitch to resist. 

A look at the clock above the door showed that he had gotten two hours of sleep after he’d returned from the mansion of the same Mathildo Poddle who had sprung for half a loaf of bread the day before; another look at the tribute position grid on the console side of the room told him that both Raif and Bee were still alive, making their way through a grove far away from both the mutts and their opponents. 

Only then did he fully sit up and try to shake himself awake, giving his best friend’s words his full attention. Because, wait. “But they have Haymitch under lock and key in that hospital.”

“Yeah well, that’s for you and me, dickhead, not for Capitol reporters,” Johanna said with a shrug. “You wanna watch this or what? If my tribute decides to do something other than shiver, I might have to leave early, so let’s not miss the beginning.”

A knot of tension growing in the pit of his stomach, Finnick let the Seven victor lead him to one of the small lounge rooms next to the main hall, where it was possible to watch the coverage off the main channel while still keeping an eye on the tribute feeds through the glass walls. Chaff was already seated in an arm chair when they arrived, waving at them lazily; next to him sat Beetee, another mentor out of the Games, following the studio coverage of the show closely and looking twitchy. Finnick hadn’t even known that he and Haymitch were close, though he supposed they were about the same age. A few minutes after the coverage had started, the door opened again and Caramel walked in, moving to lounge against the wall in the back with his arms crossed and his face tense, as far away from Finnick as possible. 

“Anybody have a guess how this will go?” Finnick asked the room at large, sitting down on a leather couch alongside Johanna. 

Beetee attempted a calming smile in his direction, pushing up his glasses. “Haymitch has always fared well with cameras pointed at him,” he told him, clearly understanding that Finnick had asked in hope of reassurance from somebody who had known the Twelve victor longer. “He might not have been asked for permission when this interview was scheduled, but we never are, are we? He’ll be just fine.”

Now that he was substituting for him in the Games, it kept striking Finnick how little he really knew about Haymitch. He talked to him about things, important things throughout the years, had seen his Games of course – both because Mags had made him and because Snow had, along with the footage of the Abernathy execution. He knew Haymitch had had a mother who had looked so much like him and a kid brother and a half-starved girlfriend with a frame built to be curvy, because he had seen these people die. But he barely even knew anything about District Twelve except for how it was futile and tiny and starving – and cold in winter – certainly not what it was like for Haymitch to live there and if there had been any friends of his watching on from the sidelines when that Hovercraft carried him to the hospital. Thinking of the ruins of a house during the Reaping Day coverage, though, he had a pretty safe feeling that all of Haymitch’s closest friends were sitting in this room with Finnick right now – the way Beetee seemed so focused and Caramel seemed just gloomy. 

When the camera cut to White Feathers Rehab Center, Finnick had to blink to reconcile the man seated across the journalist with the victor who had chatted with him outside a night club last year. It was in the clinical atmosphere of a hospital room; there was a tall window in the background, overlooking the grounds of a beautiful park. Reclined in his chair tentatively, Haymitch seemed to have lost ten pounds in two weeks. But it just made him look haggard, and the sunshine filling the room made him appear sickly, like somebody who had only barely started recovering from a disease. Although Finnick knew that those cinematographic choices would work in Haymitch’s favor, concern still twisted something in his guts. 

The almond-eyed journalist sported a wild mob of spiky blue hair as well as turquoise flower tattoos around his eyes. In contrast to the low-level Twelve correspondent with the disheveled wig who had covered the original news report, this one was all professionalism, perfectly artificial. The caption informed the audience that he was Cheeks Calamius, Capitol star reporter. Finnick knew his work quite well. Cheeks tended to be harmless, until he suddenly went for the jugular.

“So, Haymitch,” Cheeks said, taking an over-exaggerated deep breath for dramatics. “You’ve been throwing the Capitol in _quite_ the frenzy these past two weeks, now haven’t you?”

Finnick wasn’t sure what he had expected of Haymitch in his first camera appearance after all that had transpired, but the smile that made that man’s lips twitch in reply to Cheeks’ question wasn’t it. It seemed sickly and lacking in energy, yes, but it also looked honest and surprisingly sheepish. 

“Yeah,” that man who was Haymitch replied, pausing to clear his voice. “Sorry about that.” He moved his hand to scratch his chin, then lowered it again into his lap without following through. From the way the camera zoomed in on it for a moment, he was trying to cover up how it was shaking. “Looks like I took it a little too far these last few years, huh? What can I say? Those Capitol drinks are just pretty damn addictive. Literally, turns out. And so easy to have them ordered to my district, too. I dunno, it’s like celebrating the Games just became an endless affair.” 

“Go get ‘em, old man,” Johanna breathed next to Finnick, her façade of anger dropping for a moment, as if she’d forgotten to hide that she, too, cared. 

“He’s gonna make it through this,” Chaff muttered, thumping the knuckles of his good hand against his teeth.

“We were very, _very_ shocked to find you in your house like that,” Cheeks prompted, his face a picture of anguished concern. 

Haymitch nodded. “No kidding,” he agreed with a light chuckle, though Finnick had never heard him make that particular sound for real. “And jokes aside…” Donning a more serious expression, he continued. “I’m really embarrassed about what’s been happening, Cheeks. I’ve been having a couple of pretty rough days in here, I’m not gonna lie about that. But they let me see the footage eventually, and I can’t believe that’s me. I can’t believe any of the guy I was these past few years is me. Can’t remember anything about that night before the Games either. Just, knowing there’d be another Reaping the next day, and, knowing I wouldn’t ever manage to bring these kids home no matter what I did…”

“The Capitol knows you’ve always tried to be at your best…” Cheeks rushed to reassure him, but Haymitch waved it off. 

“Failed at it though, didn’t I? All of it… It was such an honor and I…” Breathing a sigh, he looked away as if to compose himself. All of his expressions looked just foreign to Finnick. Of course, Haymitch was following a script; this had Snow written all over it. The only surprise was how well he was doing it, but it still seemed so surreal. Now, he looked straight at the reporter again and spoke on vehemently. “There aren’t any words for how grateful I am to the people in the Capitol, all the things they have been doing to help me when I’m just some district bumpkin, honestly. Everybody here at this place, likewise, the doctors and the therapists, and President Snow, of course. The reporters, too, the way they reacted when they found me like that.”

“Aw Haymitch,” Cheeks exclaimed. “We all want to _help_ , it’s a _disease_ …”

“I’ll get better,” Haymitch interrupted him. “I’ll get out of here and I’ll do a better job…”

“And all our thoughts are with you.” The reporter smiled at him brightly. “Now, I’ve been told that I shouldn’t ask you any questions about the Hunger Games, but…” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper and winked. “I’m going to sneak one in anyway.” With a dramatic flourish, he leaned forward. “You must have been delighted to hear that both of the Twelve tributes are still in the running so far on this fifth day of the 72nd Hunger Games, and under supervision by the notorious Finnick Odair no less. What do you think of their odds so far?”

“Yeah, I’ve been following the Games as much as I can.” Haymitch’s lips twitched again in that odd self-depreciating way. “They don’t always let me.” Cheeks dutifully chuckled. “I know I’ve said this a lot of times before and turned out wrong, so people might have stopped believing me, but, you know, this is the new me. I think we might stand a real chance with those two. That boy has good arms on him. Pretty athletic. I don’t think anybody has noticed that much, yet. Don’t let his little limping act fool you. He has yet to get into a fight and I think he’s probably holding out on us…”

“Ah, I hear the Games enthusiast coming through. Please remember you _are_ supposed to be recovering instead of mentoring, and answer one last question – how did you react when you learned that Finnick had been assigned to mentor your district alongside you? Did it make your pride twitch at least a little?”

“Not at all. Everybody can see that Finnick’s a natural. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brought one of these two home. Any district would be glad to have him on the team.” Finnick, the young natural. Haymitch, the experienced one. It was the obvious choice for how they’d play it come next year, but Finnick was still quietly relieved to see Haymitch starting to set the stage for it on his end. It meant he’d seen some of Finnick’s interviews. Obviously, he’d seen Raif’s and Bee’s.

“Using those wonderful sporting last words to cap this off. Haymitch, let me again wish you a speedy recovery and a healthy, happy Hunger Games.” Cheeks turned to face the camera. “This was Cheeks Calamius talking to District Twelve’s Haymitch Abernathy from the White Feathers Capitol Rehabilitation Center. Back to the studio, and happy Hunger Games to you folks back home as well.”

A touch on the remote by Chaff to mute the sound when the Games studio reappeared on the screen, and for a couple of seconds, the small room full of victors was covered in silence as they all pondered what they had seen. 

“This is good,” Caramel grimly said. “This could have been a lot more fucked up than it turned out.”

“Who would have thought the old bastard still had it in him,” Johanna said, using the opportunity to stretch, rolling her shoulders, before she got up from the couch. “Considering I’ve seen dead tributes who’ve looked better.”

Beetee gave her a befuddled look; Finnick had a sense he didn’t quite understand her presence in this room. Haymitch and Johanna had hit it off from the beginning, though, odd imbalanced couple that they made. “Well,” the Three victor said. “Well. Let’s not forget that he _is_ undergoing withdrawal…”

“Not like it’ll last for long,” Chaff interrupted him. When he got up from his chair, Finnick could see that inappropriately, there was a wine bottle dangling from between his fingers. He’d been wondering about Chaff, who he hadn’t known that well before this Games. In Haymitch’s wake, nobody ever took much notice of Chaff’s drinking, but just because he was functioning and taking everything so lightly… well. Raising his bottle to salute everybody in the room, Chaff smirked at them. “Not like he’ll have to stay like that once he’s back home. This whole fucked up charade would make anybody need a drink or two. Cheers, everyone.” With that, he wandered off to go wherever you had to be as a victor if both of your tributes were dead, and nobody wanted to fuck you. 

Uneasily, Finnick looked after him. 

Because, yeah – there was that. 

He wondered what Snow had said to Haymitch to scare him into that perfect performance. 

* * *

Finnick was shaken awake by Two’s Lyme the following night when a band of wild horse mutts with furious red demon eyes raced towards his tributes, the drumming of their hooves making the ground of their grove shake and waking them up. 

“I think those are horses,” exhausted Bee whispered at Raif when they spied at them across a pile of snow, wrapped in the additional blankets Finnick had been able to send from the money stirred by Haymitch’s interview. His handful of surviving fans had dared to show their colors for the first time in years. 

Raif grimaced. “I’ve never seen a horse. Only goats.”

“They do look like goats,” Bee said and giggled. 

“Thank you very much,” Finnick told the screen between two yawns, toasting it with his cup of coffee, although nobody was close enough to hear.

That was before two of those crazy animals decided to desert the herd and go after his tributes instead, who soon found themselves running through the woods, sinking into several inches of soft powder snow that even Bee’s dancing feet couldn’t handle. 

Raif couldn’t keep up anymore soon, dragging his busted leg like it was dead weight. His face a mask of that spite that he seemed to feel for everything, he hissed at the girl to keep running and to leave him behind. Like Finnick had coached her to do, she did, no questions asked. They’d barely been separated when Raif was overrun by the mutt, a fury beast of hooves and teeth breaking his skull and ripping him into bits like a real horse never could. 

Bee stood there and just screamed and screamed when it came after her and for a wild moment, Finnick madly grew convinced that those screams would make the thing turn around and run, but a little girl that panicked when she so much didn’t want to die couldn’t sway a Gamesmaker’s creation. It left her bleeding from a bite to her belly and Finnick kept watch for almost two hours until she was dead, spending every second praying that she wouldn’t wake up again before her cannon blared. Other victors came to check on him, but he barely noticed them, his eyes always on the screen, on unconscious Bee’s face and how it twitched sometimes.

It was much later that he realized that Raif and Bee would have made Final Eight if they’d only outlasted one more tribute; it had been nine tributes at that point, and now there were seven. Technically, Bee would still be placed eighth in the stats. _Good for long-term district marketing,_ he tried to think, knowing that was how Mags would look at it, what she had built on in the early days of Four, but right now it just meant that he had failed these children and they were dead.

* * *

While Finnick made his way from Capitol bed to Capitol bed, the Games continued. Alliances broke apart and reformed by the minute when nobody wanted to face the snow alone. 

That was why Nine female hadn’t left Two’s Apollinara to die after she had freaked, but a sponsoring gift of a spear prompted her into action now. The hosts reached new levels of bad taste when they played it as comic relief: The Two volunteer panicked again, running away and leading Nine into a dead tribute’s trap by coincidence, the most pointless death in this whole Games. Lyme had completely lost control of her marketing and would likely face the consequence once she got home whether Apollinara made it or not; but no mentor could have salvaged that one.

Johanna’s girl was left behind by her partner when she was wounded by a horse, freezing to death without supplies. Ten-Three fell apart when Three suffocated Ten female in her sleep, but Mags’ Sara took him out. She formed a temporary alliance with Apollinara, who shared her bread with her, but she still died of her injuries after another day. Mags hadn’t known that she had blood poisoning. _Sara_ hadn’t known that she had blood poisoning, collapsing where she had been standing and just never getting up again – the Games pathologist had a field day giving interviews. She’d died of a scratch.

Two eventless days after that, District Ten’s sixteen-year-old Tobin McKenzie was declared victor of the 72nd Hunger Games. He had holed up in the mountains and cut open a dead horse mutt’s belly, crawling in to warm himself against its steaming intestines. Apollinara just lay down and froze to death. The audience had found her amusing, but ultimately hated her; a box of matches would have been all she’d have needed to survive. 

Tobin became a rare victor with only one kill. He didn’t know how to fight and should rightfully not have stood a chance; he’d stabbed the thirteen-year-old Eleven girl when it was three of them against one, and he’d held the knife the way his mum would have taught him for cutting up steak. 

That could have been Bee or Raif, Finnick tiredly thought. But it just hadn’t been. 

Mentoring this Hunger Games had been draining enough for a whole lifetime.

* * *

After the ceremonies, his stylist Cherry frantically started composing a diet plan, sans seafood, while Finnick was allowed to return to his district one last time. He had to pack, and the cameras wanted to catch the goodbyes. 

His family was all waiting for him at the train station when he arrived; they hadn’t done that since he returned from his Victory Tour. His father stepped forward and pulled him into a hug; there were tears in his eyes. Somehow Finnick had always managed to fool his parents and brothers about what he was really doing on his dates with all those celebrities, but now that he’d actually stepped forward and volunteered for real, they suddenly chose to believe that it couldn’t possibly have been Finnick’s idea to move away. 

Trying not to feel like dirt, Finnick gratefully accepted all the hugs and didn’t rid them of the sentiment. At least, he thought, they’d enjoy the excuse to move away from Victors’ Rock. They’d always been uncomfortable amongst all those district heroes, and it wasn’t like they couldn’t afford life without him by now. 

Everything he ever did had been to protect these people. He could do this one thing for himself and leave. 

* * *

The gleaming golden trident from his Games was mounted on the wall across his bed. It was too beautiful to use for sparring, too deadly to wield when he didn’t mean to harm. For a practiced observer, the gold alloy couldn’t cover that it was pure death, meant for destruction. 

Victors weren’t usually allowed to keep their arena weapons; those went to the arena museums, where people could take pictures of the artifacts on the guided tours for a hefty service charge. But Finnick, age fourteen, had played the masses to get what he wanted for the first time then, although he hadn’t realized at the time that that was what he was doing. _“I can’t keep it?”_ he’d asked in alarm during his victory interview, _“I thought I could keep it!”_ On replays, he had seen how his face had fallen, such an enchanting little crushed boy, murderer disguised as child. The audience had cheered and waved their banners until the President had tilted his head into a nod. 

It had felt inconceivable, letting go of that trident ever again. 

Now, Finnick took it down. 

Even now that he had grown another couple of inches and his shoulders had filled out into the size of a man, it still had perfect balance in his hands, as if it would forever change shape to remain his. No scratch had ever marred it, the alloy supplying it with the weight and resistibility of steel without taking any of its beauty away. 

It still would fit him perfectly, Finnick knew. He could still take that thing and walk out of this house into town and nobody – not even the other victors of Four, not even next year’s volunteers, armed to their teeth – would be able to stop him. It still would transform him into a god of life and death, brimming with power. 

It wasn’t possible to wrap a trident. It would be fastened to some box or trunk, for everybody to see when it was brought to his new home. 

_All the better._

Anything to please the cameras. 

* * *

During one of his last nights in Four, Finnick awoke from the echoes of a dream resounding in his head. Far away, through the open windows carrying in the cooling salty breeze of the sea, he could hear the waves crashing against the Rock. In front of his inner eyes, patrons – no, clients – were still pushing him down, holding him open, making him scream in panic, like he never would be allowed in reality. 

In reality, they always expected him to moan and beg for more. 

Finnick shuddered, turning to his other side and trying to force it away, so that it would be gone but it didn’t work. It never did. He hadn’t expected it would.

Arousal was burning through him like fire.

 _No,_ he thought, tired. _No. Please no._

But he reached down to touch himself anyway, despite the wave of nausea that hit him when he did, pressing his eyes shut and letting the images come – just five minutes, quickly, just so that it would be _gone._

Backhanded across his face. Somebody clenching his jaw with their hand. Telling him to _suck it, now_ although he was crying, and whispering, _please_ and _I can’t_ and _please don’t hurt me_. That was when he started coming, to the image of spreading his legs because they were making him but still chanting _no no no_ , biting his lip and swallowing a moan and grabbing his cock tighter so it wouldn’t slip out of his hand too soon, while it was shrinking.

Breathing hard, Finnick curled up into himself as if he was five and still tiny, not twenty-one and a giant of a guy, hairless only because remake made it so, some sort of disturbing slut. He wished there was a way of turning his head away from himself. 

It made sense, he tried to tell himself shakily. All he wanted to do every time was scream and hide. It made sense, in that situation, for him to eroticize… 

Shame had replaced his arousal, hot and smoldering and dirty.

There was no excuse.

He didn’t want to be that man. He never wanted to be anywhere close to being _that._

And he needed to be sure that nobody he loved would ever see that thing he had become. They might never notice if he hid it well, but he would still feel better about it once he had left, once that danger was gone.

 _Two days,_ he feebly chanted to himself, curling up tighter. _Two days._

_You’ll be in District Twelve._

_Nobody will ever have to see._

_Nobody but Haymitch, and he won’t care._

He repeated it until it became a mantra, falling back asleep.


	7. Chapter 6: Introducing District Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When the mayor begged him forward to say a few words, everybody turned their eyes on him, and if these eyes didn’t quite say that nobody wanted him here, at the very least they said they didn’t think he’d make a difference._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of the descriptions in the first scene of this chapter are owed to a scene in [Fixed to a Star](http://archiveofourown.org/works/655081/chapters/1193523) by lorata. I was quite shocked to realize how much, but I guess that just proves the awesomeness of that fic.

### Chapter 6: Introducing District Twelve

The differences between Twelve and Four were stark. Finnick had known that they would be, intellectually. But even the glimpses of Justice Buildings and town squares on his Victory Tour, all a blur now, hadn’t prepared him for the reality of eight-thousand lost souls staring at him while he was standing on the Justice Building stage, coal dust caught in every crevice of their clothes and suspicion in their eyes. 

They were a wall of disgust. It was simmering in their faces, right underneath the desperation, barely hidden well enough for the Peacekeepers not to intervene. It wasn’t even hate for the Peacekeepers – Head Peacekeeper Cray, whose clammy hand Finnick had already shaken, was standing in the back of the hurriedly erected stage with his red face and those few grey hairs brushed across his head, scratching his nose as if he’d rather still be in bed. It was disgust for the Capitol camera teams crouching on the roofs like vultures, the reporters who breathlessly informed their respective audience about Finnick Odair’s arrival in Twelve and how everybody was so _excited_. Most notably, it was for him who was intruding in their tight little world, for his crisp Capitol clothes and his perfect skin and his styled hair. 

District Four wasn’t content, it was struggling – the Capitol raising the quota although there was less fish to be found every year, the Peacekeepers penalizing every little thing, Mags and Calina having been forbidden to hold their annual food share. Four would explode one day, from fury and despair. But Twelve had already reached and passed that point of desperation. It had surrendered; it had nothing to fight with. 

Finnick tried to keep his face blank while first Effie prattled on – the Capitol always felt safer sending an escort to host events like this and make sure the barbarians behaved themselves in front of the camera. Then Mayor Undersee took the stage and spoke carefully scripted words of welcome, mixing Capitol imperatives and district demands. He was a tall, bald man who seemed to have resigned himself to the role of Capitol voice, who could only ever change the smallest things in favor of his district. The arrival of Finnick Odair was not amongst them. 

At least the people in the square hadn’t been divided by gender and age groups, like on Reaping Day, though still had been herded here like sheep. Painfully young couples barely out of Reaping age were holding babies in improvised blankets, clutching them to their chests. Children had hollow eyes and sunken cheekbones. The ones with dark hair were starved, their collarbones and shoulder joints showing under their thin summer garb - impossible to make out the Knapsweeds and Donallies, although Finnick searched for traces of Bee and Raif in everybody’s face. The blond ones were mostly not starving, but working on getting there. Every now and then in the breaks between speeches, the silence was interrupted by mucus-filled coughs. _Black lung,_ Finnick remembered Haymitch calling it. _“Dying in the Games is faster than dying of black lung, so there’s always that.”_ The miners’ disease. 

When the mayor begged him forward to say a few words, everybody turned their eyes on him, and if these eyes didn’t quite say that nobody wanted him here, at the very least they said they didn’t think he’d make a difference. It was either _Go away,_ or _What do you think your fancy clothes and happy smiles will change?_ He’d be another mouth to feed, stealing their food with his money. 

It said, _We broke the other ones, too; you’re not a first,_ making Finnick shudder. He forbade his mind to go there. Haymitch would be back. He’d be fine, and he’d had plenty of reasons to drink that had nothing to do with his district. 

Swagger March had had plenty of reasons to kill himself, too.

Summer in Twelve was humid in a lukewarm, clammy way, hanging in the still air and pressing down on his shoulders without an ocean breeze to diffuse is. Finnick had to clear his throat before he spoke, because coal dust seemed to fill his lungs whenever he breathed in. 

There were things he wanted to say. 

_I know you don’t trust me. I hope you’ll start to one day, though. I really want to help you. Let me prove to you that I can bring some of them home. I’m pretty good at what I do, you see? We might stand a chance to make things better if we just keep hoping. If Haymitch and I can do it together. We’re both pretty sharp. We can make it work together._

He wanted to say, _You think I don’t understand what it’s like. But it used to be like this in Four. Everybody was starving before Mags and Rory won. They changed it. They gave people hope. They built schools. The district even grew, they even moved the fence and let us build another village, with a hospital. We can change it here, too._

He wanted to say, _Let me help,_ but if there was one thing he was sure the people from Twelve and he had in common, it was knowing that you never spoke your mind if there were cameras pointed at you, because this wasn’t ever about them or him. This was about the Capitol. 

This was about filling the four-o’clock-slot between _Fashion Report_ and _My Top 25 Victory Kills_.

So Finnick forced a smile on his face that he hoped wouldn’t appear too sunny and carefree and said into the microphone, smooth like honey, “It’s such an incredible honor that President Snow chose me to come here…”

* * *

“ _Everybody_ in the Capitol is so excited to have you here in Twelve, I have no _words,_ ” Effie chirped three hours later, when the camera teams had left and they had found themselves standing in front of his new house alone. “Social media activity is _all over_ the place, I had to hire an _intern_ to keep track of all the wonderful things your fans have been saying about you on the networks.” There was faint wonder in her voice; likely, she had never had to commission an intern. “There has been some activity concerning Haymitch as well, but, thank the Capitol, nothing too negative. Mostly, people have been showing support.

“And they should, you know,” she added after a contemplative moment. “It’s a disease.”

Taking a deep freeing breath as if she was taking in an ocean breeze instead of faint whiffs of smog, she gave Finnick her best smile. “There surely will be coverage for Haymitch’s return, too. I’ll be right back here for that. Call me whenever you need anything.” Offering her hand, she indicated a curtsy and giggled when he smiled, intoxicated on success. “Have a wonderful time in your new district, Finnick. Working with you is a joy,” she said and waved on her way down the empty road of Victors’ Village, high heels clicking on concrete. 

Finnick looked after her, taking in the silence. 

Birds he’d never heard before outside of Games were singing in the trees, in the big oak tree behind Haymitch’s house, next to his. All the way down the road, at the empty mansion furthest away, an aging olive-skinned gardener was hosing down the yard. Otherwise, there was no life in evidence. Haymitch’s house so lived-in that decay had spilled over – he must have forbidden the gardener to tend to his lawn, fern growing wildly and covering the remains of wooden benches – but now silence was hanging over it like a cloak. Across the street, a mansion painted in dark red still showed faint signs of past habitation – a rotten dartboard mounted to a trunk on the lawn, broken garden pottery – but that had to have been ages ago; there was no telling if it had belonged to the late Swagger or Lyra from Two. It was uncomfortably easy to imagine the Twelve victor dangling from that tree, in this ghost of a place. 

Finnick couldn’t even make out the hum of the district fence right behind the outer row of houses, and he wondered if the Peacekeepers even bothered powering it. Nowhere to go in District Twelve, where you could stay in your cage or die in the forests; in here, surely you couldn’t learn the survival skills needed out there. Bigger districts at least had farmland and forests, little children climbing trees or learning how to build camps. Seven with its lumberjack crews hadn’t produced five victors by accident. He didn’t need anybody to tell him that they didn’t teach that kind of thing in school around here. Probably had nobody to teach it, either, except the victors they disliked so much.

Finnick’s house looked a lot like his old one in Four had; it had the same layout. He knew all the furniture and the other impersonal items that he hadn’t put away in boxes himself had been spread out in roughly the same places from before. Even the exterior had been painted the same white and sunshine yellow for him. The trident was waiting somewhere in there, so that he could decide where to mount it – it would go back up on the wall across from his bed, where he could see it always, especially when he woke up at night. 

It made it feel as if he’d never really moved anywhere.

Obviously, no impression could have been further from the truth.

* * *

People turned their heads to look after him when he walked down the street - starved dark-haired families who stuck together closely, skinny old men missing limbs huddled in entrances, who didn’t even bother begging for money. Little children’s eyes widened while they pointed at his bronze hair and his light, expensive district garb, their mothers dragging them away with hisses and whispers, throwing Finnick guarded glances the same way smart younger meat district tributes would throw a volunteer. 

The bakery was empty at this time of day, filled with an intense aroma of warm bread and spilled sugar. It should have been a comfortable, cozy place. 

The baker behind the counter was tall and impossibly skinny, but by disposition rather than starvation, her blond hair wrapped in a careful turban braid. Her eyes widened in shock when Finnick entered her shop, then transformed into a fierce, thin smile that would have looked Capitol, except nobody in the Capitol had ever had to defend anything with their lives. 

“What an honor to have you here in the Mellark bakery,” she intoned, making Finnick suppress a tired smirk – apparently the victors weren’t the only ones with a cardinal rule. The baker’s eyes watered when she tried to look him over inconspicuously. Recognizing the business opportunity, and screw district ethics. “How can I help you today?”

“How about a couple of bread rolls,” Finnick said with a hopefully friendly and unthreatening expression on his face. “One of each kind to try them out.” Then he nodded at the displays. “Your cakes look beautiful.” He wasn’t sure who in this forsaken district could afford to buy them, though. Maybe the mayor did. Peacekeepers, probably. 

Maybe Haymitch did, though no matter how unapologetically Finnick knew the other victor gorged himself on the Capitol food every Games, it was hard to envision him munching bright green birthday cake. 

“My youngest son does the icing,” the baker informed him with a bristling air. “He is very gifted.” She said it like it was a requirement. Then, without bothering to turn towards the back room, she shouted, “Peeta! Bring a box, hurry up! We have a customer who wants to buy a cake!”

“Actually…” Finnick stopped himself. A tall, strong-looking, non-starved boy of maybe fourteen, half through Reaping age, had appeared on cue and was giving him a cautious once-over when he handed his mother a cardboard carton. He shared his mother’s blond hair, though his eyes just seemed curious.

As good a way of spreading some of his money in the district as any, Finnick supposed.

“Hey,” he said to the boy while he reached for his wallet. “I’m Finnick.”

The teen hesitated, glancing at his mother. “I know,” he replied in a soft, surprisingly low voice, as if he’d carefully thought about those two words. 

“Give me that.” His mother took the box out of his hand, and it was almost imperceptible, but Finnick could still see how Peeta hid a flinch. The baker gave him another of her manic smiles. “Which cake would you like to try out? Mr. Odair?”

Resigning himself to the fact that he would be buying a cake, Finnick pointed at a small one in the display case with a lot of red and white frosting. It was decorated with little sugar flowers, though fortunately none of them were roses. He couldn’t but admire that sales pitch, either, imagining Mrs. Mellark bullying Capitol folks into sponsoring tributes. The way she covered reality with a bright smile and a loud voice certainly reminded him of Hunger Games coverage.

Though picturing her in the Games at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, she would probably never have made it out of the bloodbath.

“What an excellent choice!” the baker said. And, “We are very grateful to have you with us here in Twelve. May the odds be ever in your favor.” Finnick gave her a perfunctory smile and paid, the last thing he heard when he stepped onto the street the sound of a slap and, “That’s no way to treat the richest customer in town, you worthless…”

The door fell shut behind him, cutting her off. 

_Welcome to District Twelve,_ he thought with a grimace.

* * *

There was a girl waiting in front of his door when he came home. 

The sun was setting in the distance, a blazing crimson ball illuminating the forest atop the hills behind the fence. Four had been flat, miles and miles of ocean stretching out in the East, just as many miles of wet land in the West. Twelve was surrounded by mountainsides and trees wherever he turned, the district a little cleared pocket of coal and despair. 

Finnick thought the girl was maybe seventeen, tall but starved to the bone, her long black hair – rich like Bee’s – carefully braided in that simple way he’d seen in other women on the street. He thought it was probably her pride and joy, carefully tended to every morning before school – maybe she’d even skipped a meal sometimes so that she could use a precious chicken egg or beer for hair conditioner. Her face was clean, her dress carefully mended, yet worn and stained. 

“Uhm, hello,” he said carefully, walking past where she’d been sitting on his doorstep, hurrying to get up and brushing the dirt off her skirt while he unlocked his door. “Can I help you with anything?”

The girl blushed. “I’m Fallon.” She said it like it was a question. 

“It’s great to meet you,” Finnick said. “I’m Finnick.” He quirked his lips at her suggestively and crooked his head towards the South. “From a place down that way.”

There was some natural maturity in the way she held her back so straight, a frailty in her gestures that would have been pretty if she didn’t look so sickly, so the nervous giggle escaping her sounded strange. Then it transformed into something like a hiccup and became just the most awful sound Finnick thought he’d ever heard outside the Capitol. 

“What…” he said in alarm, and she interrupted him.

“I thought you’d be, you’d be all alone.”

She lowered her eyes. 

“Well, I am,” Finnick said blankly. “Just me in the Village until Haymitch comes back.”

Her blush grew more prominent. 

“I meant,” she said. “I meant you’d be lonely.”

“Say again?”

_No._

_No. Absolutely not._

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not to _him_.

Understanding dawned upon him and Finnick thought he’d never felt so dirty. Which was ridiculous, because he’d murdered children seven years ago and he had _liked_ it, he still used those three weeks to prop himself up when he was down, and because he was a whore himself. He’d even sat there in Snow’s office and when Snow had told him to… when he’d told him to, Finnick had… 

_No. No. Don’t go there now._

But here Fallon from District Twelve was standing in front of his door, expecting him… thinking he would… because he had money, because he was Capitol to her, one of _them_. 

The fact that she was almost out of Reaping age, almost Finnick’s age and therefore somebody who he might have enjoyed talking to, given how he was starved for a conversation partner from his age group, only made it worse. 

“Listen,” Fallon said in a rush, when she saw that he had frozen, not all that enthusiastic about the proposition. “It’s not a lot of money, it’s just a couple of coins and I won’t steal, while we’re inside. You won’t even have to look me in the eyes if you don’t want that. I’m clean, I don’t have any diseases, I promise; some of the other girls have diseases. I’m practically a virgin and if you want me to…”

“No,” Finnick interrupted her harshly, pressing out the words between his teeth, “I really don’t.” 

Balling his hand into a fist until the key pierced into the palm of his hand, he took a breath, feeling his torso rising and falling abruptly. Fallon’s eyes flickered at his shoulders, the way his biceps had tensed, then back at his face. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, as if soothing a wild animal. “The Peacekeepers do it too.”

“I’m not a Peacekeeper, I’m not…” Finnick muttered, trying not to sway. He felt dizzy, and nauseous, as if tremors might start running down his body and breaking him into little bits any second. All the world seemed to be in motion, as if he was a figurine in a little dollhouse that somebody had picked up and tilted. 

“I want you to leave,” he said, barely hearing himself over the noise in his ears. 

At the edge of his vision, he saw her taking a hesitant step back. 

“Leave,” he repeated more firmly and she was nodding, flash of concern on her face while realizing that she’d just propositioned a nutcase. The skirt of her dress swirling, exposing a grey petticoat, she took off, not quite running but knowing how to be gone swiftly, her summer slippers echoing on the Village concrete. 

_Her Reaping dress,_ Finnick thought irrationally. _She’s wearing her Reaping dress for me._

What a perfect choice. 

Finnick reached out until he felt the doorframe behind him, dropping his keys and stepping back until he could lean against the door, hard assuring steady presence in his back. All the world was still swaying around, smears of bright blue summer sky rocking into view, then the roof of the abandoned red house from across the street, the smell of bees and summer and despair. 

The back of his head connecting with the heavy wood warmed by the sun, he struggled to breathe. It would have been easier if he was swimming, letting the waves crash over his head and riding out the tide. But there was no ocean in District Twelve, and this would have to do.

* * *

When a knock echoed through his house the next morning, Finnick followed the noise to the kitchen door leading out to the back. He told himself there was nothing wrong with reminding himself that he was considerably taller and stronger than most of the starved people in Twelve, and that there were kitchen knives close by. People tended to forget that Finnick hadn’t won his Games by blinding his opponents with his smiles. After restless nights like this one, it was harder to remember how that gave him a strategic advantage. 

However, the young man leaning against the railing of the stairs was just as tall as Finnick. Defensively, Finnick took a step back. 

The man – no, boy, he couldn’t be older than about sixteen – gave him a grim little smile. 

“Since you’re new in town, I thought you might want to buy some turkey for your empty freezer,” he said, the tail end of puberty flipping his voice across two octaves in as many words. 

He had the dark hair and the grey eyes of Twelve – Seam hair, Finnick corrected himself, miners’ hair – and the fact that he wasn’t looking starved like almost everybody probably made him appear older than he was. He had a handsome face, too, with a serious, mature streak. He _did_ look like he could be made into a whore. The Capitol would eat him alive. 

A little vicious voice in his head told Finnick there was always hoping that he’d get reaped. 

“Turkey,” he repeated without understanding, his eyes trailing to the game bag slung over the boy’s shoulder, its underside soaked with patches of fresh blood. He wanted to take another step back when the smell hit him.

The young poacher followed his eyes. “I can sell you a leg and a chest,” he said. “A quart of blueberries to go with it. But you’ll have to make me a good offer, because those would fetch a good price with the Peacekeepers, too.” 

It was the same message Fallon had relayed: intruder from the Capitol that he was, Finnick didn’t have to be concerned about breaking the law. It didn’t surprise Finnick when he thought about it, having learned that the butcher mostly sold frozen beef from District Ten. Even the people with money still needed to organize enough food to spend it on. 

Finnick could almost imagine this young man arguing with his family and friends trying to stop him from selling to the new victor: _“Man with muscle like that needs to eat meat.”_ Thinking of Cherry’s diet plan, he wouldn’t have been wrong either. 

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Finnick leaned against the doorframe. 

“Isn’t poaching forbidden in Twelve?” he still asked, his tone mild, just because he wanted to hear the reply.

Dried blood underneath his chopped nails and the smell of animal guts still clinging to him, the boy gave him a grimace that didn’t quite manage the impression of a smirk. “What, that?” He glanced at his bag. “I found it lying in my backyard. Must have hurt itself when it came through the fence.” 

“With those blueberries caught in its beak?”

“Something like that.”

Everything about his stance looked relaxed, but there was an underlying tension to his demeanor that grated at Finnick, as if he was stopping himself from looking around for threats. He set Finnick on edge, looking the closest that Twelve would ever have to a Career, acting like a tribute on Day Three. 

_Another one in this district who doesn’t need an arena to play the Games,_ Finnick thought, remembering Mrs. Mellark. 

When they settled on a price, Finnick reached for his wallet and counted the coins. 

They might have decided to hate his guts, but apparently the same wasn’t true for his money. They’d apparently learned to be pragmatic. 

It reminded him of Haymitch, who’d worked his arena with the little he had brought – desperation, schoolyard fighting, a determination to use whatever he could find as a weapon, even the arena’s own boundaries. 

So when the poacher had disappeared, leaving bits of turkey and a bag of berries behind, Finnick grabbed an encyclopedia from a shelf in his living room and flipped pages until he found the picture of that particular mutt. 

_Northern Lowbush Blueberries: edible._

Just to be sure.


	8. Chapter 7: Haymitch Abernathy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nobody in the Capitol would ever know how much dignity it cost you to say something like that while a camera was pointed at your face for a close-up, capturing how you were paling or whether you’d cry._

### Chapter 7: Haymitch Abernathy Returns

Haymitch returned to District Twelve in late August – eight weeks after his breakdown – when humid summer sun was still burning into people’s necks and tanning even the palest miners’ faces. Reporters had come on the train alongside him, conducting their exclusive interviews on the way, but other teams set down by hovercraft and assembled their equipment before he arrived. They filmed Finnick and the district council waiting on the platform, searching the district for Haymitch’s friends and family to interview and coming up with nothing much.

Cherry had breezed in with her team and put Finnick in a real shirt with a normal neckline, creating a more adult, reputable version of him whom you wouldn’t just fuck, but also trust to handle your sponsorship money. Collar chafing his throat, he’d listened to Mrs. Mellark informing a reporter that the Games parachuteers used her recipe to send Twelve tributes bread and of course, she knew Haymitch, because Haymitch, like everybody with any taste, bought her bread day in and out. All of the district couldn’t wait to get their victor back, she assured the camera twitchily, all of them so grateful that the Capitol had taken care of him like this. Peeta, Dane and Hue Mellark were all looking like they didn’t know how they’d ever dare go back to school and work. 

Barely anybody Haymitch’s age was in evidence in this district where everybody had gone to school together. Carefully blank olive-skinned faces told Finnick a story of unspoken agreements between Seam and victor: _We act like we’ve never known you. You act like you’ve never known us. You don’t actually belong. Nobody will die._

Finnick first laid eyes on Haymitch stepping off the train with Effie and his stylist, a changed man, painfully healthy and sober – an image so wrong that Finnick had an urge to interrupt those reporters and ask them if they didn’t _see_. It was just another sick twist of Capitol media again, a world where even the sobriety of an addict could be turned into something ugly, because it only existed to please the crowds. Sobriety was good. Forcing it on somebody for entertainment was a sickening joke.

The Twelve stylist had taken more care with Haymitch than Finnick had ever seen. If he was paler than a man should be in summer, make-up was covering it up. He’d lost more weight, and what remained of his proud beer belly had been smartly smoothed out by his clothes. But Finnick still thought that he looked nothing like the starved district populations, nothing like a Capitol citizen with discount liposuctions. He still, defiantly, looked unique. 

The crowd cleared and cameras flashed when Haymitch sauntered up to Finnick. Finnick strangely felt like a soldier welcoming a comrade to another battle, subconsciously pulling himself up.

They shook hands in a casual way. 

“Welcome home,” Finnick said, loud enough for it to carry, because this was for the cameras. “Sorry I didn’t get one crowned for you this year.” Implying, _well that improvised first try was just bound to go wrong, we all knew that, but wait for next year._ Implying, _soon enough I will. We’ll be building something new. Just stay tuned._

If the skin around Haymitch’s eyes looked tight from exhaustion, if his smile seemed a little too jovial to not make Finnick flinch on the inside, the cameras wouldn’t zoom in closely enough for them to catch it. “There’s always another year,” Haymitch’s strong voice boomed across the crowd. “You took excellent care of them.”

One detail that a camera would never know to capture: the Knapsweeds and the Donallies somewhere in the town square crowd, demanding that excellent care should have meant bringing Raif or Bee home. Both clearly hadn’t refused to accept Finnick’s condolences only because they hadn’t dared shutting the door in the fancy collaborator’s face. 

“Haymitch! Haymitch!” one of the reporters shouted from the crowd. “Are you looking forward to living next to your new neighbor?”

Haymitch slyly looked Finnick over. “Sure gonna be a prettier view than before,” he rumbled, and everybody laughed. 

They walked towards the town square together, trailed by the reporters, and the Haymitch Finnick knew would have patted his back, dragged him physically along, just because he could. Haymitch had always been strangely unafraid to touch other victors. But this public Haymitch looped his fingers into his belt on the way, good-natured air about himself while keeping his distance for the cameras. 

Or maybe rehab had just changed him. They were walking close enough that Finnick should have smelled the alcohol that had always clung to Haymitch, the strangely clean-smelling and very wasted Haymitch. He’d never even a single time seen Haymitch sober before. He might as well have not known this man at all. 

It wasn’t the cameras pointed at them from all around that made Finnick’s skin crawl then.

 _Mom. Dad. Keanu, Perri, Coral, Uncle Lauro, Uncle Jaime,_ he recited like a litany in his head.

* * *

An open-air stage had been erected in front of the Justice Building. Finnick supposed they should feel honored that Claudius Templesmith had come all the way from the Capitol to host the interview. The notorious Flickerman, he knew for a fact, vacationed at the beach of Four’s tourist quarters this time of year, abusing his privileges by renting a victor on their home turf to sweeten his nights. A victor who wouldn’t be Finnick. 

Cringing to himself, he wondered if Caramel Doll had been resurrected as a whore to pinch-hit. Caramel had been allowed to retire when Finnick entered the market. They had the same hair. 

Cue Claudius Templesmith, who was pudgy and jovial underneath his star-shaped, sunny yellow Mohawk and who’d never bought a victor for himself, though sometimes sprung for one for his two nieces. Templesmith had none of Flickerman’s exuberance and little of his flair; but the producers always sent him if they meant to play it safe, his pacing and control impeccable. Finnick couldn’t but wonder if Snow had sent Templesmith to prevent Finnick from running the show, and it filled him with a grim sense of satisfaction to know he’d scared that man. He’d never again be that victor Snow could trust to perform. 

It was unflappable Templesmith who had conducted all the interviews with Johanna at her most uncontrollable, though Finnick had always suspected that was also partly because she made Flickerman wet his pants.

“So Haymitch,” Templesmith said, folding his hands over his belly and blinking into the sun behind them, setting the stage for easily digestible breakfast television. “Let me start by saying that you look astonishingly good. We’re all glad to see you at your best again. What does it feel like to finally be home?”

“Oh, you know,” Haymitch shrugged it off, harrumphing vaguely. “Thanks, I guess. And good. It feels good. The Capitol’s golden, but who’d like staying at a hospital?” He smirked weakly. “No place like home and all that.”

He was fading after the long morning of interviews, making Finnick wonder in concern what they had done to him in that place, during those eight weeks under lock and key. Detoxing, whatever that was like. Therapy with doctors who didn’t believe that the Games could fuck you up and who thought you self-involved for saying otherwise. Finnick knew that rehab was a wonderful idea in theory, another privilege the districts were denied. But that was for people who wanted to be there. Forced sobriety, he uneasily thought, was just torture, like the Games. 

He tried not to look at Haymitch’s hand, resting on the arm of his chair currently. 

Not trembling from withdrawal symptoms anymore.

“Yes,” Templesmith said easily, obviously sensing that Haymitch wasn’t willing, or just too exhausted to lead on without strong cues. “But there are dangers to returning to the familiar surroundings of home, too, we’ve been told by your attending physicians.”

“About picking up old habits,” Haymitch agreed. “Yeah. But I’m… I mean, it’s not gonna be easy, I know that,” he corrected himself. “It’s gonna be really hard. When I’m here, I’m still used to the way things used to be, the old routines. The ones that made me drink.” Nobody in the Capitol would ever know how much dignity it cost you to say something like that while a camera was pointed at your face for a close-up, capturing how you were paling or whether you’d cry. “I’ve been warned about that. We talked about it a lot, my therapists and me. I know that danger. But I’ll be checking back in with my doctor by phone all the time. I’ve decided to be optimistic about it, you know? I’m grateful that I’m getting this opportunity for a new start. And all the support from everybody.”

“Ah yes. About that. My team was a little shocked when we arrived here, I have to tell you. It’s been impossible to find the people close to you, waiting for you to return.” Templesmith frowned at Haymitch. “You haven’t been holing up in your house and drinking all year, now have you?” He winked. “Nobody to tuck you in during lonely nights, hm?”

Huffing a chuckle, Haymitch waved it off. “We’re a camera shy bunch here in Twelve,” he said and Finnick saw how he waited until Templesmith’s lips twitched, checking back with the host if he still was on track. “But it’s a part of the problem,” he continued. “Honestly, I’m the solitary type by nature. It’s sometimes… it can be hard to reconnect with your district once you’ve gotten used to the Capitol lifestyle.”

Another slice of your soul sold off, almost palpably widening that chasm between Haymitch and the people on the square. Finnick didn’t look, but he listened for them, and he couldn’t even make out a cough. It was easy to imagine what they were thinking behind their carefully blank expressions. 

Templesmith smiled. “How do you plan on helping Haymitch acclimatize, Finnick?”

“Well, we don’t know each other that well yet, actually,” Finnick replied promptly. “I respect Haymitch a lot, obviously. We worked side by side as mentors last year and now that I’ve experienced the strain of mentoring alone, I’m all the more impressed by his work. But I’m looking forward to getting to know you.” He addressed Haymitch at that, who produced a reciprocating hum and nodded. “We’re going to be working together closely, of course, plotting future Games. And we’ll be neighbors in the Victors’ Village.” He smiled, making it sound as if he was talking of night clubs and the promise of a lay. “I’ll make sure he gets out a little more. Twelve is such a beautiful district. A lot of places to go.” 

_If you want to be stabbed in the back._

Templesmith looked pleased at the answer. “I know there are many people in District Twelve who would be honored to spend time with you, Haymitch,” he said. “And a little tolerance for the less educated people in your district is not asking too much. My team tells me that everybody is delighted to finally have you back safe and sound.”

This was the point where a Capitol audience would have exploded into spontaneous affirmative applause, cheering and whistling and waving their banners, banners they spent days painting at their fan club meetings, a popular hobby. In the lead-up coverage last night, Finnick had even seen a couple of those, sporting portraits of a younger Haymitch, sometimes Finnick next to him and captions of, _Remember that the odds are ever in your favor!_ and, _Haymitch & Finnick – District Twelve for victory!_ Some had _Swagger, Haymitch, Finnick_ but the _Swagger_ scratched out and the _Finnick_ added above it by hand. 

But Finnick had been here long enough to not at all be surprised when here in front of the Twelve audience, they were greeted by silence as thick as a shroud. Next to him, Haymitch didn’t even seem to be listening for a reaction. 

Somewhere, somebody coughed wetly from black lung disease. 

Templesmith moved on to the next topic. 

They wouldn’t have staged this open-air if the district’s reactions mattered to this broadcast, obviously.

* * *

The Templesmith interview was followed by a press conference for the private channels and less prominent publishers such as _Capitol Whispers_ and _Where’s My Victor?_ They asked questions ranging from what diet had the rehab center put Haymitch on (“Uhm, you’d have to ask them that. Lot of greens?”), and was Finnick planning on seeing Marcus Honarius again or had it only been a season fling (“I’d have to wait and see if he’d even still want me next year, now would I?” which was so hysterically true that it threatened to make him cry right there). After that, the cameras followed them to Victors’ Village. They filmed what Finnick had done with his new house, comparing it to his old cottage on Victors’ Rock. Haymitch’s house was still in terrible shape even now that Effie had told the gardener to get his lawn in order for the camera, and have the broken benches on his porch replaced, but the reporters just blithely talked about what Capitol designers could learn from these cozy and quaint “district style” choices. In the end, it was just one last photographer shooting pictures of the empty houses at the Village for an art exhibit that would apparently be called “Panemara: Expectance of Bliss,” and then his hovercraft left, too.

After making his goodbyes to Effie, who was still talking media monitoring at Haymitch, Finnick went to his house and holed up in his bedroom, where he sat down on the bed and stared at his trident mounted on the wall across, waiting for the other man to show up. He’d chosen this room to sleep because the oak outside would allow him to climb down to the ground floor if he heard somebody intrude, and he told himself it wasn’t any weirder than keeping his trident around, nothing wrong with one less little thing nagging at him. There were plenty victors crazier than that.

It was quiet now that everybody had left, faint song of birds returning to the Village through the open window, the rushing of a mountain full of trees from way beyond the fence. Afternoon sun fell all across the floor, the polished golden alloy of the trident reflecting it in all the places where blood should be dripping off the prongs and the shaft. Although Finnick didn’t doubt for a second that this room had been bugged, it felt for the first time like the media truly had left. 

Haymitch was back. The first act of the story had finally played out. And Finnick was living in Twelve, as far away from home as it got. 

It wasn’t long before Haymitch showed up. Downstairs, the kitchen door fell shut just loudly enough for him to hear, and heavy footsteps echoed through the house. They grew louder up the stairs, passing by the open doors of the other rooms and faltering before this one. After a pause, there was a surprisingly soft knock and a moment of nothing, until Finnick said, “Come in.” 

In the corner of his eye, the door opened to reveal Haymitch, who paused and had an almost hesitant look around. Remembering disdainful eyes on the streets and the ruins of a house across the lawn, Finnick wondered how long it had been since Haymitch had entered anybody’s bedroom, especially by free will. Then again, he couldn’t remember when anybody had last entered his own bedroom on Victors’ Rock without any discomfort, so he guessed that evened that out. 

So the Games had made him crazy, he thought, suddenly incapable of pulling his eyes away from the imaginary blood of his weapon. So be it. In his seven years in the Capitol, he’d seen Brutus compulsively obsessed with victory as if each new victor made up for the tributes he’d killed; Six’s Ralda had committed suicide just last year with the same poison she’d used to discard of her arena opponents, and there’d been his district’s Annie, more honest than most of them, losing it then and there during her Games. 

“You might as well take a seat,” Finnick said without turning his eyes away from it. 

“Nice decoration piece,” Haymitch quipped and now Finnick did look up, found that Haymitch had slumped into an arm chair in a corner of the room. 

Idly reaching for a piece of rope lying discarded on a shelf, the other victor started to wrap it around his fingers in preparation of a knot. 

“I’ll tell my interior designer you said so.”

“He wouldn’t go by the name of Snow, because that’s mine, too,” Haymitch deadpanned. Then without looking up, as if prepared for chitchat, “Only one knot we really have a use for here in Twelve.”

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut for a second and rubbed his neck, trying to chase that dissociative feeling away and focusing firmly on the here and now. Haymitch was back in his view, crooking his head and working and reworking his knot that he apparently didn’t quite remember how to do, none of a Four native’s finesse who’d have learned that in Games school. There was no Games school Haymitch could have learned anything at. And there were so many things that needed to be said, before they ate Finnick up. 

“So I guess ‘sorry’ doesn’t even start to cover it,” he said more lightly than he felt. 

Haymitch looked up from his work. “Huh?”

Finnick chuckled without humor in reply. He hated apologizing, not because he felt like he shouldn’t have to – sometimes he felt like he should have to all day – but because he’d rather not think of all his flaws when he could avoid it. Some weren’t just a matter of lonely nights and dreams, though. Some were broadcast on Flickerman’s show. 

“Sorry I didn’t get Bee or Raif home, for one,” he said, starting with the easiest. “They were good kids. They deserved to get a chance. I did everything I could – they might as well have gotten lucky, you saw that arena – but, they just didn’t.”

“And you’ll understand soon enough that that’s just how it works for District Twelve,” Haymitch replied, conversationally. He pointed his half-finished work at Finnick. “I’ll give you points for Capitol levels of delusion, though. You seriously think all we ever needed to do well in the Games was a pretty face with better connections?”

Of course he grimaced apologetically the second the words had left his mouth, because they both of them knew that getting too drunk to stand upright didn’t qualify as doing well enough, and Finnick’s pretty face and better connections meant he had to beg for more while movie stars fucked him without lube and politicians came on his face. 

There was something dangerous about Haymitch when sober, dangerous and sharp, as if the booze had blunted his edges and now they were back, with force, whether he wanted them to be or not. 

“Go on,” he goaded Finnick. “I’m curious to hear how this mess is your fault.”

Finnick stared at Haymitch’s hands, curling and uncurling around the rope, but the words suddenly wouldn’t form. 

“Your district really doesn’t like me,” he heard himself say instead. “They look at me as if… I don’t know… as if I’ll steal something from them on top of taking their children to die in the Games, or something like that.”

“Can’t get sponsorship from each and every fan club,” Haymitch said, citing a proverb Five’s James had made up. “First and last victor who hit it off with the district, counting substitutes, was Swagger. Told them little lies about how he’d bring plenty tributes home, and there’s a reason he made it no ten years before we found him hanging from a tree. It’s better to stay on your own. It’s safer.”

 _You can’t lose anybody close to you if there is nobody close to you in the first place._ He didn’t say that, but Finnick had seen the Abernathy execution and he suddenly wondered if Haymitch ever had, and he didn’t need to know Haymitch more intimately to hear the unspoken words. But he’d seen District Twelve, too. He thought he’d already gotten a better look at District Twelve than any outsider had since Lyra. He wondered if she’d told Haymitch when he moved into the Village to stick to himself, like she must have when he went into a forty-eight tributes arena with a plan to go it alone. 

It hadn’t turned out safer for Haymitch in the end, though. It had almost left him dead at the foot of his stairs, and the only reason he’d been found had been because of Reaping Day. 

When it became clear to Haymitch that Finnick didn’t know what to say, the older victor sighed a little to himself and refocused on the rope, loosening it and starting again, now with more certainty about how to fashion the knot, as if it had taken him some time to recall. “So Snow and I had a little talk during my health-related stay at beautiful White Feathers Rehab Center.” Automatically, Finnick looked up, something recoiling in his guts. “Came to reassure himself that I’d be fine, I’m sure.” Haymitch smirked. “Negotiated the terms of releasing me into the wild again.”

“Oh?” Finnick said, mouth dry.

“Yeah,” Haymitch said, and there was an almost visible stutter right then, when his casualness dripped out of him, like water spurts. Staring at the rope for a moment, he threw the finished work back on the shelf without showing it off. Again, he sighed, and this time it was the most exhausted, emptied sound that Finnick had ever heard him make. He moved to rest his elbows on his thighs, rubbing his hands together. Then he looked up at Finnick. 

“He’s gonna start killing your family if I don’t stay dry for good.” He said it off-handedly, as if there was nothing that could be done about it anyway, so why bother with emotions anymore. 

Finnick resisted an urge to squeeze his eyes shut again in an attempt to keep it all out, just, keep it as far away from him as he could. He resisted an urge to look at his trident, too, sink into that sight and let it soothe him because it wouldn’t, not now. It would just make him cry, remind him of all the things he didn’t have the power to change. 

“I know.”

Haymitch nodded, as if he’d guessed. “So that’s where I’m sorry,” he said. 

_Can you do it?_ He wished it made any sense to ask or even beg. He wouldn’t have hesitated to beg, on his knees, if he had thought it would make any kind of difference. _You have to do it. You have to stay sober. You don’t know them but I love them and I can’t lose them, not now, not like this, not because of this._

Victors rarely ever killed themselves, they wouldn’t have made it through the arena intact without too strong a survival instinct – Ralda and Swagger were the rare exception to that rule. But Finnick thought, if he failed and lost his family like _this,_ he wouldn’t know what to do.

He knew Haymitch well enough to know for sure he would try. He’d try with all he still had left. But that kind of pressure didn’t make it easier, it made it worse, and even normal addicts often didn’t manage to stick to the plan. Haymitch hadn’t even agreed to withdrawal by his own free will. Capitol knew what arena flashbacks or bouts of paranoia or compulsions would resurface now that the liquor couldn’t wash them away anymore, and Finnick knew for a fact that Haymitch had been sold off for a while on top of that after the Quell. He didn’t need his… dreams, his inclinations to know how that fucked you up. 

The silence stretched and Haymitch said, a strange kind of strain in his voice, “If it helps, I’ll be trying to protect them like I would my own family,” and Finnick laughed, a harsh, short, bitter sound. He laughed like he’d have vomited. 

Haymitch sounded like he was having a hard time finding his voice, flinching at the sound. “It’s… Listen, kid, it’s my fault obviously. I didn’t think this would… I wasn’t thinking anymore at all, I guess. Too much liquor for that. I should’ve been, considering I was around for how they made Lyra Ingram mentor here. They wouldn’t have let me get away with the drinking forever, what with me being the only one left here. President always made it clear that I hold a special place in his heart, too. I’m just real sorry it’s you. Not even sure how that happened, I mean, they shouldn’t have sent someone this popular and you’d never pissed on anybody’s porch…”

Finnick raised his head to zone in on him, so abruptly it made his eyes water. 

“They didn’t _send_ me here,” he interrupted Haymitch. “I volunteered.”

“What?” Haymitch stopped in his tracks. The way he looked at Finnick, it was clear he hadn’t even considered that, as if Finnick had said something outrageous like the sky being green or the Games all having been a drug-induced hallucination. And why should he have considered it? Finnick hadn’t considered that Haymitch might not know, either. Haymitch had probably only ever seen highlight clips of that talk show. And even if they’d let him watch a complete recap, he must have thought it was a little off but still scripted, because everything they did was always scripted, because none of them ever volunteered, baring one or two especially crazy Two and One Careers.

It had never even occurred to Finnick that Haymitch might not know. 

He breathed a little, desperate laugh. What a way to get it out. “I volunteered,” he repeated. “I actually volunteered. So, you see. I made this happen. President Snow would never have sent me on his own, but I made it happen in Flickerman’s show so that he couldn’t refuse.”

He couldn’t help but wonder if Snow was listening to this conversation in the office of his mansion right now, laughing at them both. 

And despite all that, Finnick still couldn’t help that little selfish power rush of remembering how _good_ it had felt to make them do something that Snow was so powerless about. He’d pushed a piece of reality into existence, just like when twenty-three tributes had died and he’d gone back home. 

With a murder weapon to mount on his wall. 

It seemed that Haymitch’s mouth was suddenly too dry for proper words - _hah_ , Finnick thought, near hysterical at the idea of it, _too dry_ \- because he opened his mouth, closed it again, hesitated. Regrouped. “And why, if I may ask,” he eventually said, very composed, “would you do something as stupid as that?”

“Because I couldn’t stand looking them in the eye anymore,” Finnick said, with the same words he’d used so long ago when he’d whispered that secret at Haymitch behind that club, except now it didn’t feel like there was any shame in it; now that it was done, he could admit to it aloud. “I couldn’t stand that they were looking at me like I’m a killer and a slut and Capitol.”

Not when two out of the three were so true, and he hadn’t been sure about the third for a while. 

Haymitch just looked at him for a second like he thought Finnick had lost his mind. 

Then he visibly deflated, rubbing his eyes in a gesture that just looked too tired, too tired to come up with anything productive. “Aw kid.” 

“So this is my fault.” Finnick heard himself say it very firmly. Suddenly, it was possible to get it out. “I forced Snow’s hand and he punished me for that. If you should ever slip, and drink again, on camera or off, my mom or… or, any Odair dies. You didn’t have anybody left to protect and now you have me.”

“There’s always someone to protect,” Haymitch tried to wave it off but then he chuckled, as if despite himself, just this little silly, unhinged noise. 

_He made me touch myself in his office._ Suddenly, Finnick really wanted to say that, wanted to hear those words aloud. He wanted it to stop consuming him. Normally he wanted all these things as far away from him as he could, whenever he could, but now he felt like it could spill over, like he needed this one most recent thing that had happened to spill over, so hard it threatened to make him shake. _He said to show him what I had to offer. He wanted to show me that he’s still in control. I couldn’t get an erection, I’m only twenty-one and I still couldn’t get an erection, and he was looking at me. And I couldn’t, no matter how I touched myself so I had to close my eyes and… I had to picture how…_

A tiny helpless sound threatened to escape his throat and he ran his hands through his hair - still stiff from Capitol hairspray - clutching at his head and forcing the shakes down, lowering his head. Forcing the images away, just redirecting his mind, every time they reappeared, until they greyed out. 

He wouldn’t fall apart. Not now that he’d already made it this far. Not again. 

When he took a breath and forced the worst of the tension away, possibly minutes later, he found Haymitch watching him calmly, something that wasn’t exactly concern in his eyes. 

“Something I should do when that happens?” he asked mildly. 

Finnick shook his head. 

“Good,” Haymitch said. “Because it doesn’t look like I’ll be at liberty of offering you any white liquor for it from now on.”

“I’ve been wondering why you call it that,” Finnick said, just to hear himself talk about something else. “It isn’t white. It’s clear. I meant to ask the boy who sells the turkey, but I didn’t think he’d even like it if I asked for his name.”

“You’re buying turkey from the Hawthorne kid?” Haymitch would probably have sounded amused, if all about him hadn’t appeared too exhausted and spent. “Way to make the most important contacts right away. Sure hope you’ve met Ripper, too. She sells the booze. Probably bleeding you dry with his prices, the boy is.” And after a moment, “Pretty sure his name is Gale.”

“He sold me some goosling for you. It’s in your freezer. I had to throw out the other food, it’d gone bad. I hope it’s okay that I went into your kitchen.” Mess that it had been. He’d thrown out some things that had been rotting away on plates, too, forgotten on the counter, on the kitchen table. He wasn’t a neat freak, but that kitchen had been a little too much even for his taste.

“Thanks,” Haymitch said. “Whatever. Better you than those camera teams.” Then, he said, “And about the house.” And cleared his voice. 

Finnick looked up when he didn’t continue, but now it was Haymitch who was looking away, jaw working. 

“Spill,” he said. “A little late for false pride now, don’t you think?”

 _“I’m surprised, Mr. Odair,”_ he could almost hear President Snow. _“I would have thought that is the only kind of pride a victor of the Hunger Games has left.”_

But thinking of Snow was just threatening to make him shake right now, so he firmly trained his eyes on Haymitch. 

Haymitch, who sighed as if to say, _I don’t even care anymore._

“I need you to go over and throw out what’s left of the liquor before I go in,” he said. “Get rid of the stuff that smells of alcohol, too, I guess. I’ll tell you where you have to look for everything. You should probably write it down. Not a good idea to risk missing anything small.”

It was surprising, Finnick thought, how they kept finding little pieces of dignity that they could even still slice off. Surely you had to run out of them eventually, but maybe that was where that liquor came in. Maybe that was what Finnick was heading for, too.

“Sure,” he said. 

“Good boy,” Haymitch said. 

Later that night before he went to bed, Finnick paused at the chair the other man had been sitting on and picked up the rope, studying the knot Haymitch had taken so much care to fashion – the only kind of knot they ever had any use for here in Twelve, he’d said. 

Looking it over, he snorted. 

Of course, Haymitch would have made a noose.


	9. Chapter 8: The Hunger Games Angle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You think a little magic pill is gonna solve all of our problems, you’re misunderstanding something about life in Panem as such.”_

### Chapter 8: The Hunger Games Angle

Two weeks later, Finnick’s biggest problem wasn’t keeping Haymitch from drinking. Haymitch wasn’t drinking. 

However, Haymitch also, apparently, wasn’t _sleeping._

Or if he was doing so, he wasn’t doing it at night, and he definitely wasn’t doing it enough. 

It soon became glaringly obvious that whatever issues the alcohol had served to neutralize, Haymitch didn’t have the first idea how to cope with them now that his old tool was out of commission. 

Finnick had first noticed it one night days after Haymitch’s return, when he couldn’t manage to stay asleep himself, nodding off and waking up again with little starts, until he finally grew aware enough of his surroundings to realize that light was shining through the window onto his sheets, although all of Victors’ Village should have been covered in darkness. 

It had originated from Haymitch’s house across the lawn, illuminated like a lighthouse, every single lamp turned on even in rooms Finnick was reasonably sure had once been furnished for Mrs. Abernathy and her youngest and weren’t in use. Haymitch had to have specifically made a round to turn them all on before the sun went down.

Too sleepy for full comprehension, Finnick had gazed at it for a while. Eventually, he had caught a glimpse of Haymitch through one of the windows, walking past an open door through a hallway, still very much dressed in the same grey shirt from the day before. His hair had been wet, curling in the nape of his neck. It occurred to Finnick that he’d caught Haymitch on his way back from a shower various times, even during previous summers in the Capitol; he took them religiously, and even made use of the subtler options of the opulent Capitol showers’ soap generators that most victors couldn’t be bothered to figure out. 

Thinking it all a little unusual, Finnick had asked Haymitch about it the next morning when he paid him a visit after his morning run. He’d found the other victor in a new set of clothes and definitely still awake. Spooning jam out of a can with a Capitol logo on it without bothering to put it on bread first, he seemed to be determined to ignore the dark circles under his eyes. They hadn’t just appeared there this morning either, now that Finnick thought about it. They’d been there for almost as long as Haymitch had been back.

“So what’s with the light show last night?” he had asked, flopping down on a chair at the kitchen table and resting his feet on another. If Haymitch wasn’t going to care about keeping his house clean, Finnick wasn’t either. “That has to be eating up mad amounts of electricity.”

Haymitch shrugged. “Well, there was that one time they paid me lots of money for stabbing some children to death, so I think I’m gonna be covered for the bill.”

Finnick smirked, looking him over with sympathy. “Having trouble sleeping?”

He wouldn’t have found anything wrong with it, if Haymitch had admitted to a fear of the dark; you didn’t need that many lights in your house just to fend off nightmares. But they didn’t know each other _all_ that well. He had a strong feeling that Haymitch wouldn’t have appreciated that insinuation. He’d already lost too much dignity and privacy to the Capitol for that. Both of those were in rare supply for a victor.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise when Haymitch said, with an edge, “I’m having trouble keeping people’s nose out of my business.” And Finnick had shrugged it off with no more than a grimace when he got up. 

Fair enough, he had supposed. 

But that was before he noticed the lights during the following night and the one after that, and again the one after that. All lamps burning brightly, chasing the darkness out of the house, and Haymitch wide awake through the night. There were some serious problems brewing on that front, loud and clear. Problems that would start boiling over if things continued in that vein. And it didn’t look like Haymitch was starting to get a grip on them on his own.

* * *

Eventually, Haymitch’s cheeks started taking a seriously unhealthy yellow tint. Everything about him seemed sunken, as if he was hollowing out from the inside, in stark opposition to that carefully crafted healthy character that he had played for Templesmith’s interview, that supposed new man. Whenever Finnick went over to visit – more and more reluctantly with every passing day, because those visits were never _returned_ – Haymitch would be awake and he would be at home. He didn’t leave to go anywhere, not even to buy groceries, living off supremely unhealthy supplies of Capitol food that apparently Effie had been sending him for years – though Finnick had listened to that interview with Mrs. Mellark and knew for a fact that Haymitch had used to eat normally like anybody. 

That was maybe the most disconcerting thing of all, seeing that Haymitch was losing even more weight by the day, when he’d already returned from rehab more slender than anybody had a right to be after that short a timeframe. Haymitch just wasn’t _supposed_ to be slender, not in Finnick’s head.

His trademark wit was starting to suffer, too. There were moments when he just stared at Finnick until he caught up to what Finnick had said, his mind visibly trailing behind. He seemed to trail off in the middle of conversations, yawning constantly even when he was clasping cups of Capitol coffee that he didn’t like or bother to sweeten, if his grimaces were anything to go by. He was still taking showers, because he always smelled soapy and clean, but he seemed to be caring about his laundry less and less, and he definitely couldn’t be bothered to take care of his house. 

Worried, Finnick called Effie and asked her to look up the effects of insomnia to understand what he was dealing with, since the Twelve Justice Building didn’t have anything resembling a well-stocked library. She got back to him within hours, and Finnick didn’t like her answer one bit. Hallucinations. Paranoia. Irritability. In some cases, heart problems and even death, especially when connected to this kind of rapid weight loss. Finnick vividly remembered Haymitch asleep on the couch in Mentor Central with a knife clutched in his hand and decided that a paranoid Haymitch Abernathy was exactly the last thing District Twelve needed to see. 

He forgot to factor in that Effie Trinket being flighty didn’t mean she was stupid. 

It was only a day after the conversation that he returned from his grocery shopping only to be stopped on his way past Haymitch’s by a loud, impatient rap against one of the windows from the inside of the house. When he looked around, the victor motioned for him to come in.

He found Haymitch waiting for him in his hallway with his arms crossed in front of his chest, as if forming a physical barrier between Finnick and the privacy of his life. 

“So I just got a phone call by Trinket,” he said, face carefully schooled. 

“Okay?” Finnick said, not making the connection, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Still he put the shopping bags down, leaning them against the wall between a heap of old shoes and a stash of books, both having gathered a layer dust so thick that he didn’t even disturb it. 

“Apparently she’s very _concerned,_ ” Haymitch said with a slow-building hint of menace. “Because _somebody_ was asking questions about lack of _sleep_ , so this _better_ not be me fucking up my duty to the Capitol to be healthy.”

That didn’t quite sound like Effie, but Finnick could immediately imagine it anyway – the escort chirping a mile a minute at Haymitch in concern about how he _had_ to take his recovery seriously because it was a _disease_ , and had he ever tried meditation techniques like _everybody_ in the Capitol was doing for stress therapy this season and he _had_ to call his therapist before it got worse. Just _think_ of all your fans, now that they don’t have to be embarrassed about you anymore.

So Finnick groaned, giving Haymitch a look of chagrin. “I’m sorry,” he said, instinctually making it sound heartfelt as well as casual, because they both were killers, and Haymitch was angry. It automatically set a part of Finnick on edge, made him ready to deflect. “I didn’t think she’d figure out what I was asking for. I guess I’m just worried. And, I mean, yes, she’s Effie, but she probably is too.”

“Capitol being _concerned_ about me is what got me in this mess in the first place, so I think I’ll pass this time,” Haymitch crisply replied. “And if the Capitol was _stupid_ , we wouldn’t be here either.”

“Yes,” Finnick said, nodding immediately. “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” Haymitch said. “You want to live in this shithole of a district, that’s up to you. But I won’t let you fuck around with my life just because you’re here. None of your business what I do and don’t do when the cameras are off, as long as I’m sober meanwhile.”

Finnick shrugged. “I was worried,” he repeated in an appeasing tone.

His arms still crossed in front of his chest imperviously, Haymitch stiffened his jaw. “This isn’t me gearing up to get smashed, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

There was a strongly defensive edge to those words, and Finnick couldn’t help it; he sighed. “I know,” he said. “And honestly, that’s what I was so worried about, but different than you think, I guess? I mean, I can see that this…” He made a vague gesture, encompassing Haymitch’s house and the last couple of weeks and everything Haymitch had been saying and doing since he returned. It was as good a chance as any to bring it up, he supposed. “I guess I can see that it’s hard, staying sober in this situation? I just wish I could help. I mean, I got you into this. I want to help.”

“I think you’ve done quite enough,” Haymitch said. 

The fact that he said it so calmly just meant that it felt even more like a slap, as if Finnick had been physically hit. Except a physical blow, he would automatically have blocked. 

“Shit,” Finnick muttered, suddenly shaky, drawing a breath. 

Haymitch was watching him unmoved, only the slightest tautness in the corner of his mouth betraying that he was probably sorry to have said it, yet still resolved in his anger. And Finnick got it, he really did. _He_ had gotten Haymitch into this situation. 

A wave of guilt about it had hit him, tasting foul, and Finnick fought to push it back. Haymitch, he reminded himself firmly, had been the one found with alcohol poisoning during Reaping Day, and that would have had consequences whether Finnick got involved or not. 

Then he reminded himself that Haymitch wasn’t malicious, had never been malicious, not even when drunk – not before he’d stopped sleeping regularly for weeks and weeks on end. 

So he pulled himself up. “I had to do something,” he informed Haymitch. “I wanted to know what I was even dealing with. Don’t think I’ll apologize for caring. I mean, I know you barely sleep. You’re not eating enough and when you do, it’s just this crappy…”

“Again, not me gearing up to get back into the bottle.”

“That isn’t all that _matters_ ,” Finnick replied, feeling pushed against the wall. “Maybe it isn’t going to make you drink, but it’s sure going to get you _killed._ ”

There was a moment of silence when they just looked at each other, when that word echoed back at both of them and shattered. 

Because death, for a victor, was rarely ever just a figure of speech. Not after they’d seen eyes glass over and blood stop spurting when heartbeats stuttered off. Death was death. 

Not a muscle in Haymitch’s face was moving, but Finnick still understood that he’d hit the mark. That was it, what Haymitch was doing, whether he was aware of that fact or not – refusing to participate in life, choosing to just sit the rest of it out quietly and soberly, until it was done with, and slowly fade away in the hopes that nobody would notice before it was too late. 

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Haymitch muttered eventually, looking away. 

But he did. Of course, he did. Victors barely ever killed themselves, but often enough, they still refused to engage anymore, finding ways of disconnecting. Haymitch had made a choice to just go away when he took to the bottle, working around what he was and wasn’t allowed to do. Now that the alcohol was gone, he was reaching for a new, more permanent way of saying no. Not just to the Games. But to everything. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. 

“You’re not okay,” he said, his voice clipped, casting about for something, although he suddenly was having a terrible feeling that there was nothing he could ever say that would make Haymitch see his point. “You need to start sleeping and eating and you need to _talk_ to someone…”

“Like talking to Effie fucking Trinket is going to…”

“… could be me, could be that sales woman from the Hob or anybody, I don’t even care,” Finnick spoke right over him. “You _need_ to start getting a grip on all this. I can _help._ How about I start bringing you food…”

“I don’t need a _maid_ …”

“…and I’ve been thinking about the insomnia issue, I mean, I don’t know how things work in Twelve. But I’m positive that we can order medicine through Effie. I know some of the victors in One and Two take sleeping pills, they have the escorts requisition them, too. Even mood stabilizers, although you and I probably shouldn’t experiment with…”

“Dammit Odair, you like servicing the Capitol so much that you have to play Avox for me now, too?”

The first part would have made him terribly angry if the second part hadn’t made it too bizarre for that, so he just stared at the other man for a second, disbelieving. He wondered if Haymitch was just too tired by this point to come up with anything better. It wasn’t like he’d ever before had problems coming up with retorts that hit where they hurt most, though usually those hadn’t been directed at victors he was friends with. 

Finnick took a breath. “You need sleep,” he levelly said. “You need sleep, fluids and food. Then, we’ll see about the rest.”

“Supposedly I need to be sober, too, and look how well that’s working out.”

“And don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re losing way too much weight.”

At that, Haymitch snorted out an actual surprised laugh. “Good one,” he said, pointing a finger at Finnick. Not that it diffused any of the tension. 

“I’m serious,” Finnick said softly. “You’re not even looking like yourself anymore.”

“And I’m sure all of Panem is rejoicing about that,” Haymitch said, as if he had decided to pour all his remaining resources into his verbal defenses. “Haven’t you been listening to how they all think that I suddenly look real peachy?” The change of pace was far more disturbing than his anger had been, more unhinged, and Finnick suddenly remembered – gossip channels showing close-ups of Haymitch’s waistline, analyzing how much weight he had gained since the last Games. _Almost fuckable again,_ he could imagine Haymitch joking about it cynically, if he was more together than this. If all his walls were up. 

It made Finnick swallow, hard and compulsively when the metal taste of adrenaline started gathering in his mouth, when that wave of discomforting feelings hit him about what he himself looked like, how people looked at him, how there was never a difference between being looked at and being touched.

It made him angry, in a terrible, helpless way, because he’d _liked_ the way Haymitch had used to look, like nobody else ever did. 

“And that would be the same people who think holding a Hunger Games is really fun and exciting,” he heard himself say derisively. 

Haymitch was smirking at him, almost companionably, just for a moment. 

“You think a little magic pill is gonna solve all of our problems, you’re misunderstanding something about life in Panem as such.”

“I think a good night of rest and a couple of bread rolls are going to solve _some_ of your problems,” Finnick replied. 

Haymitch sunk into himself a little then and yawned, wide and cracking. It reminded Finnick of how long he had been back home already, how long he’d been going on like that, how little energy had to be left in his body and mind to even have this conversation. 

It again made him think that Haymitch was just going to keep fading and fading if things went on his way, until nothing was left of him. That scared him, for a dozen different reasons.

Haymitch yawned another time, so hard he seemed to sway. 

“Nah,” the victor said, waving it off. “That’d just make it easier to see how many of them there are, and how you and I can’t do anything to change them. 

“Now, Odair,” he continued, pulling himself up. “You stay out of my life in the future, and Trinket or any of her cronies better never hear about me from you again. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some coffee boiling in the kitchen.”

He just left Finnick standing there, turning and vanishing into the guts of his disorderly house. Still no trail of booze wafting after him, although Finnick suddenly had a bad feeling that everything would be better for Haymitch if one did. He’d been dealing better when he was that silly drunk from Twelve who everyone overlooked, the way he had wanted them to.

* * *

Autumn came early. Thick mists covered the darkened brushwork when Finnick left the house in the morning, running along the fence for distance, through Victor’s Village and then along the Seam, or towards the other direction past the grassland and hills of the mines, pebbles crushing under his shoes. Morning chill and coal dust sneaking underneath his clothes. One day, he thought he might cover the whole district in one run. No sandy beaches to exhaust himself on here, no Games school to help out in anymore, preparing to start teaching a class of his own. In Twelve, you could just run and run and eventually arrive back where you started. 

Haymitch wasn’t talking to him whenever he could avoid it, holing up in his house; there wasn’t anything Finnick could do if he wouldn’t let him. The visits of the prostitutes had died down eventually after every desperate young woman of Twelve had assured herself that she wasn’t to Mr. Odair’s taste, either, and he wasn’t talking to anybody anymore but Mrs. Mellark, who hit her children, and Mr. Butterworth, the butcher, selling him fresh pork of his butchered pigs from under the counter rather than the frozen goods from Ten. Gale Hawthorne, counting his coins carefully. The mayor, nodding at him on the street. To District Twelve, he was Capitol, and at best, that meant money. 

Still flooded with relief whenever he thought of home, of his family, of the looks of his brothers and parents and Mags’ searching eyes in his back, Finnick had started missing them, just talking to them, despite that. He was missing the thick taste of salt in the air, the way the ocean swallowed the humidity. He was missing the heat of the dog days of summer that just hadn’t ever properly hit Twelve. He was missing talking to people, other victors who got him, waving at Calina across the lawn, old Rory who had won some years after Mags, Clipper’s strange sense of humor that he’d never gotten, and Shania, who’d won thirty years before him and still beat him sometimes when they spared. He’d never felt so lonely. 

He grew morbidly interested in Lyra’s life in Twelve, what it had been like for her, whether everybody had dragged their children away from her on the street as well with those suspicious looks. And what it had been like for Swagger March, why he had decided to quit, what tree he had chosen to hang himself. At the butcher’s, he caught the tail end of some gossip about a Seam woman found burnt and dead, tangled in the fence, where the Peacekeepers had had to cut her down, and nobody knew why she had done that. Or nobody knew why everybody in Twelve didn’t just do that. 

It was a quiet time of year in Twelve, the months following the Games when the mourning of the tributes’ families reached its first quiet plateau, when the Four population would stop wearing black bracelets again. In Twelve, every death hurt everybody. Those were not nameless future corpses from another village. They were always friends from school and neighbors and cousins, everybody knit together by the tight connections of the Seam. 

Finnick wanted to cry after he went into town one day and Peeta Mellark gave him a short shy smile from the other side of the street, the first greeting he had gotten in Twelve given freely, because Peeta, he was sure, somehow hadn’t been tainted by the business sense of his mother. 

Then he came home one evening to find a boy waiting in front of his house, illuminated by Haymitch’s bright lights. He couldn’t be older than sixteen, mid-Reaping age, having spiked his thick dark hair with some home-made concoction, Reaping shirt starkly clean and shining white. He introduced himself as Owin, Owin Cagney of the Seam Cagneys, not the candlemaker Cagneys, and word was that Mr. Odair didn’t like the girls in the district. But Owin Cagney thought he just knew the thing that Mr. Odair would like instead. Mr. Odair could trust in his discretion. 

Also, Owin had no diseases and absolutely wouldn’t steal. 

His sass almost covered up the scent of fear clinging to him, fear and uncertainty about what the mechanics of what he had proposed would even be.

Finnick could still smell that fear when he was clutching the toilet, feeling like the heaving would just never stop, nor would the tears. His throat, his eyes were burning, and he couldn’t stop shaking, thinking he might pass out in here and just never be found. 

He wished he could have asked Haymitch how he’d managed so long in this district before it cracked him up for good, but he had a feeling that this sharper, sober, sleep-deprived Haymitch would just have laughed at him harshly, and told him that he hadn’t.

* * *

Finnick still felt miserable the following day. He hadn’t slept well, confused dreams haunting him all night; his feet didn’t seem to want to move during his run. So he grabbed his spears, heading for the Meadow in the Seam. It was still early in the morning; first shift would be in the mines, the children in school. Richer folks would be busy doing groceries in town. The Seam was half empty, half asleep. 

There was a majestic oak looming over the Meadow, older than Panem. Finnick used knives to drill into the trunk for markers, weighing the spears in his hands, each a different size and balance, and started to work on his aim, circling the target. The way he’d learned to exercise had been intrinsically connected to Games preparation. You couldn’t trust in the perfect weapon waiting for you in the arena. It might just not have been put there, like his trident hadn’t been, because he hadn’t been considered a serious enough contender. Or somebody else might snatch it first, maybe just so that you couldn’t have it. 

Throwing spears didn’t require brains, not the way knife throwing did, where you had to calculate the number of half-turns of the blade. It did, however, require strength. Finnick didn’t have biceps like steel because they looked so pretty; he’d been taught how to be deadly from an early age. 

He fired them off until his arm tired out. He kept at it until he felt a muscle cramping up in his shoulder, then continued, grimly reminding himself of how the Games didn’t wait for you to catch your breath. He tried picturing Snow’s puffy face instead of the bark, and that felt good. He pictured the tributes he’d killed and that was better. He pictured himself, and that was best of all. 

When he returned to reality, breathing hard and sweat running down his neck, there was a girl sitting close by, on one of the big rocks growing out of the grass next to where he’d left his things. 

Time had passed and the morning fogs had dispersed, but autumn chill still rang in the air, heavy and wet. 

The girl had wrapped her arms around herself, her summer jacket not near warm enough. Seam kid with those grey eyes but with darker skin than most, she was skinny and tall for her age, as tall as an adult, but she couldn’t be older than twelve. Finnick, who’d been a tall child as well, thought her classmates probably teased her for her size. She looked at him defiantly when he stared at her, jerking his spears and knives out of the trunk without letting her out of his sight, dropping them in the grass next to his jacket and water bottle. 

Somewhere in the Seam, there was a mother who’d have to fight a panic attack if she detected him this close to her child, assuming she was a good mother. In Four, this girl would have been a friend of Coral’s, and the two would have nagged at him to carry things for them, to show them a knot, to make it a _braid._

“Don’t you have to be in school?” he asked, because there had to be a reason she had paused here to watch how he was pinning imaginary opponents like butterflies. 

She was probably a little too young to gather how he, in actuality, was that pinned butterfly, even if he had tried to explain it to her. 

The girl shrugged. “My teacher suspended me, so I had to leave,” she said, each word drawn out in that awkward way kids of that age group sometimes had. “She does that a lot. But it’s cool.” Again, a shrug. “They never teach us anything _interesting._ ”

Finnick raised his eyebrow. “Interesting like throwing spears?”

She shrugged again, wringing her fingers together. 

Well. Whatever. Finnick took a breath, trying to focus on how some of that tightness in his chest had cleared up at least a little, reminding himself of how that was good. His arm would thank him for the break for sure; he could just imagine what Mags would have to say about the stupidity of pulling something for that reason, no proper medic available anywhere. 

Finnick dropped down into the moist grass next to the girl’s rock, leaning back onto his elbows and blinking straight into the cloudy sky. It might rain today, he thought, resigned. Maybe in this part of Panem, that clammy chilly air meant that it would rain. 

“You’re Finnick Odair,” the girl said. 

Finnick nodded. “That’s me. Call me Finnick.”

“You won the Games when I was a kid.”

“Mhm,” Finnick agreed, not in the mood to try any harder when it wouldn’t lead anywhere, anyway. 

“You’ll take us away for the Hunger Games when we get reaped,” the girl informed him; in the corner of his eye, Finnick had seen that her eyes had never left him when he sat down, following his every move, abiding whatever the adults had told her about him. As if victors were dangerous animals, some dark threat that was real even if you didn’t have the full explanation of it. 

“Well, yes,” he admitted after a moment. “But it’s not like I want to. It’s what you have to do if you win the Hunger Games, you have to take care of the tributes that come after you. Help them survive.” He gave her a glance, trying to figure her out. “What’s your name?”

Again the shrug, as if it didn’t quite matter. “Aleese,” she still said. “I’m gonna be Reaping age next Games. It’s my birthday next month.”

Ah. 

“I’m gonna be taking a lot of tesserae right away,” she continued, sounding determined. “Because I’m the oldest. My little brother is sick. He needs a lot of herbs.” And after a moment, “His name is Haymitch.”

Finnick couldn’t stop himself from giving her an amused look. “Really?”

Aleese curled into herself in a defensive way. “He’s named after my uncle,” she mumbled. “It was my ma’s stupid idea. My ma always has stupid ideas, like when she tells me I need school for the mines. Like the mine’s not gonna kill me or anything. I call him Mitchy,” she added, even more defensively. “The other boys tell him people called Haymitch are all useless and drunks but I tell him people with that name survive the Hunger Games. I wouldn’t care if he was a useless drunk if he won and he’d get real medicine if he did.”

Finnick couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Good for you.”

Aleese pulled herself up, looking faintly satisfied. “But my ma says that the other Haymitch and you take children to the Hunger Games if they don’t behave in school, so it’s probably gonna be me.” She said it matter-of-factly. 

He squinted at her. “What did you do to get suspended?”

“Oh. I punched this girl.” And there the shrug was again. “She had it coming, though.”

_Wouldn’t that be nice if they got reaped by that standard,_ Finnick couldn’t help but wryly think. _Twelve might actually stand a real chance if they sent all the bullies._ That was sort of how they did it in Three, he knew for a fact. Children without the brains for academia were strongly encouraged to volunteer, earning their families a pension by doing so, scholarships for their siblings. Saving a valuable kid, getting rid of a spare. Three’s Chips said the smart kids insulted the big slow ones like that on the playground. _“Just go die in the Games.”_

“So you think the Reaping ball is rigged?” Finnick asked. He didn’t bother trying to find out why she’d hit the other kid – probably defending her brother’s honor, from how this conversation was going.

The girl suddenly looked peevish, and Finnick understood she’d been properly taught that there were things you didn’t ever say, not even outside where there probably weren’t any bugs. Especially not when you talked to the new victor that everybody gossiped about, but only in hushed voices when they thought the children didn’t hear. 

“I hope they are,” she eventually muttered, preoccupied with her interlaced fingers. “Mitchy and Janna wouldn’t ever get reaped if they were.”

Then she carefully turned her eyes to look at the spears lying scattered between them in the grass. “Did you win your Games with spears?”

It occurred to Finnick that she would have been four when he won; if she hadn’t happened to catch a rerun, she wouldn’t know. And they didn’t show his Games a lot. He had enough screen time to remain in people’s minds without that, and a fourteen-year-old killer wasn’t fuckable for most. Nobody seemed to remember these days that he was a killer, or that he’d ever been a child, too young for anything. 

“With a spear, I killed two,” he answered truthfully. You had no right keeping the Games away from children. “But later, my sponsors sent me a trident. That’s… it’s a little like a pitchfork?” At her blank look, he tried to draw a shape of it into the air. “Three prongs. A long shaft. It’s meant for fishing.” He hadn’t been the first Four to fight or even win with a trident – Calina, who’d taught his class in Games school, had been the first. He’d been singled out for the weapon by her, as close to a Career as a non-volunteer could get.

Aleese mulled that over for a moment. “What was it like?”

“What was what like?” 

The trademark shrug was the first reply again. “Playing the Games?” she asked uncertainly, but Finnick had a sense he understood what she meant, anyway. It could be her up there soon – she needed to know what it was _like_. What it felt like, all the things on the television each year, but what it would be like if it was _her._

Twelve was so small, all the children of Reaping age would fit into that town square during Reaping Day. It wasn’t like in Four, where Games school had mostly been a way of excelling at sports, before that terrible moment when his name was inexplicably drawn – like the danger of drowning in the ocean if you swam too far, a distant threat that happened to other people. In Twelve, the children had to be thinking about it all the time. Effie Trinket could call their name and they would have to leave their district; the Capitol would cheer while they died.

Frustration hit Finnick, grating and bone-deep, as if he’d been here for twenty years already like Haymitch. This district suffered. Everything was set up to take away any chance for their children to survive the Games. Inside the fence, there wasn’t even a forest to teach them basic survival skills. Nobody knew how to teach fighting, except for the victors, but nobody let their children get close to those. 

Finnick took a deep breath, faintly tasting dry and bitter coal dust on his tongue. He thought back to his Games. He thought of those twenty-three excruciating days, of a pack of mostly Careers who’d all been three years his senior at least, of being starkly aware at every minute that they were only keeping him alive as long as Mags sent him bread for them to eat. Stay charming and get fed, she’d advised him, until you get a chance to kill them all. Except she was Mags and had softened that up. 

“Well,” he said. What had it been like? “Well. I had made an alliance with the Career pack. But I was only fourteen. I knew they only kept me around because they thought I’d be an easy kill once the pack fell apart. The second kill on their list. That was my advantage. I knew I’d get that moment to make my move when they turned against each other.”

“Why second?” Aleese asked. 

Finnick grimaced, the situation vividly unfolding in front of him as if it had happened only days before. He could still feel the oil from the vines on his fingers when he’d fashioned his nets. He still remembered what it had felt like to be a whole foot shorter and gangly. “Because each of them had somebody else they needed to kill first, see. Depending on their strategy. Katrin – from Seven – needed to take out Ophelia – from One – because Ophelia couldn’t stand her, and Katrin knew Ophelia would come for her first. Everybody wanted to get rid of Marco because he was the biggest and strongest, he’d even had an eleven training score. So they all thought, get rid of that person first, then kill Finnick. He’s an easy bonus kill. You’ll get more sponsors.”

“Well that was dumb. I mean, didn’t they ever see you fight or anything?” Apparently his workout routine had been properly impressive to her. 

But that wasn’t the point. Finnick searched for a more comfortable position, growing more focused while he explained. He’d never had to do that, explain his Games, not even when he helped Calina train her trident students. Nobody ever asked, thinking it inappropriate and rude.

“Oh, sure. I’d piled up two kills right away, the two Nine tributes. But nobody had time to watch the others in the bloodbath. They got away from it agreeing that I’d killed one. And I’d fumbled through it a bit.” Life lesson learned – _don’t expect your weapon to be balanced for your size._

“Then I don’t get why they even wanted to make an alliance with you.”

His smirk became grim. “Because I was a pretty child, Aleese. Everybody had been commenting on it during the training week. Their mentors had told them to keep me around, because the cameras would follow me a lot. More screen time means more sponsors. It was a dumb strategy for them, because they were screwed the moment the cameras started liking me too much. They should have taken me out right away. But they screwed up.”

It wasn’t right, Finnick thought, angry and miserable. How could he break down and cry when a Seam boy propositioned to him, but he could still sit here and discuss his Games with Aleese. Back in the Village, Haymitch wasn’t sleeping, and working so hard on not drinking, and his weird fear of the dark surely was arena related, too. Other victors had nightmares, forceful startle reflexes, they self-medicated against flashbacks and memories to fight what the Capitol refused to acknowledge was a traumatic experience. Finnick Odair, in comparison, mounted his trident on the wall across his bed so to remember all the best things in his life. 

“But what was it _like_?” Aleese asked quietly. 

“It was…” Finnick paused. “It was like nothing else,” he admitted, although he’d never said it aloud. “I always knew I would probably win. I knew I’d understood the way the Games was played. It felt… it felt that there was nothing I could do wrong if I just paid enough attention. That’s not how it works, I know. I could have been killed in my sleep or by a mutt. But it still felt like I was in charge. Every time I got a sponsor gift, I knew how I had earned that and what I needed to do to get more. I always knew what was going on in the other tributes’ heads and how I could be faster than them.” 

He’d felt like a shark amongst baitfish, all twenty-three days of it, entirely in control of the arena – of the world. He’d known who he could best in a fight, who to get rid of safely by leaving them to kill each other. In that moment when the beautiful golden trident dropped out of the sky, that annihilator built for his hands, he had been filled by that wild power rush of knowing that everyone in this arena was dead. He’d kill everybody who was left, with that.

“Were you scared?”

“Yes,” Finnick nodded very firmly. “Everybody in there is always scared.”

One of the many big advantages of the Careers – always knowing you could make it, because so many had made it before. This year’s Apollinara from Two had been an aberration, Annie Cresta had been. Panic arose only if you knew there was nothing you could do. 

Finnick had won his Games rightfully; not once had he thought back, like many other victors couldn’t resist doing, to single out the tributes who should have won in his place. There hadn’t been a one who’d have been smart and strong enough compared to him. And he hadn’t needed to do it with a ruse like Johanna, not by twisting the rules like Haymitch – he’d never even have known how to do that; his brain didn’t work like that. He’d played it exactly by the rules, not sparing a second to consider what it all meant, what it said about him that he knew how to do that. That had come later, when Snow had tasked him to do perfectly another thing. Give him a field and a firm set of rules, and he’d _play._

Except in District Twelve, where he’d found his match. Everybody was playing the Games here, and Finnick didn’t even know how to fight back. 

Then he paused, replaying that thought. 

At fourteen, he would have supposed that there was no such thing, and he’d have been right. Mags – and any Four victor – would have told him that he was right.

“I don’t want to go in there just to die, if I’m reaped,” Aleese whispered next to him, as if telling him her biggest secret, when it was just the secret of so many children in so many districts. 

Finnick pushed himself up, rolled over to rearrange himself on his belly, propped up on his arms. Able to look up to the girl sitting on her rock. Looking her over properly, like a tribute, like a future Career. She was so tall. Give her some more years, and she would even tower over most of the boys, like Finnick had despite his age. But she was starved, and her arms were skinny as sticks. Even if she managed more growth spurts without food, she’d still need to fill out. 

“I know,” Finnick told her. “I didn’t want to die in there either. That’s why I trained for it ever since I was nine. I never had to take any tesserae, but I still couldn’t stop thinking that I should be prepared. Everybody said in Four that all the children always needed to be prepared. I slept better at night after a work-out, because I knew I was doing everything I could.” They’d said he wouldn’t have to ever fight again after his Games, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop being prepared. 

Aleese looked away. It was one thing to decide to take more tesserae so you could feed your siblings. It was another knowing that it got you so much closer to dying in the Games, before you’d ever have a chance to grow up and find out who you wanted to be. 

“You know what I’d do?” Finnick asked her, not certain yet where he was going, but - _District Twelve is an arena, too. What if Twelve was an arena, too? It’s got rules. It’s got traps. What would be a victory, in the arena of Twelve?_ Aleese shook her head, squinting at him. “If I was you, I’d start training for it, just in case. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t tell anybody about it, so nobody could think to stop me. You don’t have any weapons here, it’s true, but everything can be a weapon in the Games. I’d start running. Work on endurance and learn how to sprint. You’ve got great legs for running,” he told her, nodding at her endless skinny legs. “You can’t be killed if you run away fast enough, right? Then,” he pointed at her arm. “You pick a trunk and learn how to throw rocks at it, as hard as you can. As far as you can, too. Get bigger rocks, it’ll make you stronger. Work on your aim. Every arena has got rocks. You could try throwing knives, too. I know for a fact that a couple of people here know how. Ask one of the Hawthorne kids. Don’t tell them I told you to,” he added, and she smirked. 

“And then if you ever get reaped, you’ll be able to run faster than anybody, and you’ll throw your rocks at the other tributes, and I’ll tell everybody that I trained you since you were eleven, so it’ll be like you’re a Career.”

“But you won’t have _trained_ me,” Aleese pointed out, skeptical. “Telling me to throw rocks at trees isn’t _training._ ”

_Calina would disagree,_ Finnick thought immediately, feeling so much more alert than just minutes ago, as if the conversation had woken something up inside of him. As if this train of thought had. _“Everything is training, Odair,”_ she’d have said. _“Practicing that pretty smile of yours is fucking training.”_ Take what you can get and work with that and stop whining about how it is all so unfair. 

He’d offer Aleese to throw some spears, but who was he kidding – somebody was bound to see and would certainly use that opportunity to end the silent treatment. And a single lesson at eleven wouldn’t do much but show her how much more training it would take, anyway. Better nobody ever learned they’d even talked; Aleese wouldn’t tell on him, he was reasonably sure, unlike Effie had. _Pick your allies carefully,_ he thought, snorting to himself. 

He resisted an urge to tell Aleese to pick more fights at school for practice. 

With a little luck, she would think of that herself though.

“True, it isn’t training,” he said leisurely, because he wasn’t Calina and Aleese wasn’t him. “I just want to take the credit for your victory.”

Aleese’s lips twitched then and Finnick thought, maybe she’d die in the arena if she was reaped, two, three, four years from today. Maybe she wouldn’t.

_What if Twelve was an arena,_ Finnick again thought, rolling around again to spread out on his back in the moist grass and stare at the clouds that were gathering with growing determination now. Definitely, rain was brewing in the air, and if he memorized the signs, he’d know it sooner the next time around. District Twelve was just like an arena. 

There were two kinds of victors, Finnick knew. Bee or Raif would have been the one kind if they’d ever have made it, winning by avoiding dangers and by sheer dumb luck, winning because there was nobody else left in the end. Instead of them, Ten’s Tobin had won, by sheer chance just the same way. But people like Finnick and Johanna won because they played the field – because they forced a story, a story that required their survival. Mags had won like that, once upon a time, enchanting the audience with her sheer determination and her passion and her fiery red hair. 

And Finnick hadn’t just done that the one time during his Games. He’d taken control of Flickerman’s show and his audience not once, but twice, at fourteen and then again this July. It had worked flawlessly each time.

That story hadn’t fully played out yet, was the thing. He’d been working the cameras ever since, alongside Haymitch, telling the Capitol a story of future success. But he needed to play that Games just the same way here in Twelve. 

So maybe the district hated his guts. So what. So had the Career pack, despising him for the screen time he stole, but Finnick hadn’t needed them to like him to win. He didn’t need the Seam to fall in love with him to be content in this place. He neither needed it to make it as a mentor, save a child or two and fill the Village, nor to build a life. 

_Haymitch,_ he thought, almost immediately. What he needed was Haymitch, and if this was a Games, he wouldn’t give a fuck what Haymitch thought of that. 

_If this was a Games,_ Finnick asked the sky, _then what’s my field?_

He’d just have to beat the odds.


	10. Chapter 9: The Victory Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Wake up, sleeping beauty!” Finnick shouted, kicking the kitchen door shut with his heel. “Your prince has emerged from the sea to wake you up with a little kiss and a big bowl of soup!”_

### Chapter 9: The Victory Tour

“Hey, kid,” Finnick said, catching up to the Seam child with long strides. “I’m looking for a girl called Fallon. Long black hair. About this tall.”

The boy stared at him defiantly. “I don’t know any girl.”

“If you tell her to come to my place tonight and she does, you can come over tomorrow at noon and I’ll give you a coin.”

The boy’s eyes turned round. “She’ll be there,” he rushed to say and raced off. 

“Tell her to bring a friend!” Finnick called after him. 

Everybody on the street was staring. 

Finnick gave them his best brilliant smile, thinking _fuck you all_ for once in his life and sauntering off. 

It felt good.

* * *

Handling Haymitch was harder. 

“Wake up, sleeping beauty!” Finnick shouted, kicking the kitchen door shut with his heel. “Your prince has emerged from the sea to wake you up with a little kiss and a big bowl of soup!”

Silence was the only answer. Not having expected any better, Finnick steeled himself and cleared a spot on the counter with a sweep of his arm. He just hoped that nothing had come alive inside the bacterial breeding grounds of rotting food in the sink. 

Then he spread out the vegetables he had bought at the merchie market and the Hob, half of which he didn’t know by name. But ever helpful Greasy Sae had explained to him what to do with them for a small fee. 

Determined to make as much noise as he could while searching for useable pots and the knives, Finnick didn’t look up at the noise of steps in the doorway, the shadow of Haymitch falling onto the floor. 

That was also easier than facing up to how gaunt and slack the other man had become, still clean but not neat, nothing like the force of nature he’d used to be, always commanding the room. Finnick resolved, then and there, that he would get Haymitch back to his old, surprising physical strength, his usual weight. He wanted – he _needed_ – the old Haymitch back. 

Chopping away at what Sae had told him was a local turnip mutt, a moment passed before Haymitch eventually spoke up, sounding faded and tired. 

“What the fuck is this all about?”

“I’m making soup.”

“Smartass, yeah, I got that far,” Haymitch replied. “And I suppose you don’t know anything about cooking, but you’re hoping I’ll jump in and help you out with my secret Victor’s talent, and this will all be a real peachy bonding session. I’ve seen that movie, pretty sure.”

Finnick chopped on. Remembering Tobin McKenzie butchering a child the way he would have cut up a steak, there was a distinct possibility that Finnick himself looked like he was going at the turnip close-combat style. The thought made him smirk at the vegetable. Like Tobin probably had thought too, he wouldn’t care as long as it worked.

“Well, that would be too easy, now would it?” he shot back. “So no. You can sit down at the table and enjoy the sight. I will be here, with the zucchinis. You need to eat, see. Three times a day, they say, would be ideal.” Grabbing the turnip bits, he dumped them in the pot. “It so happens that I need to eat three times a day, too, so we’re going to be combining these two things from now on. That means you’ll have to follow my diet plan, but I’ll venture a guess and say that mine’s better than yours.”

There was a moment of pause, while Haymitch seemed to process that. 

“Cute,” he said, unimpressed. 

“I try,” Finnick modestly replied, and Haymitch snorted at him. 

“You know,” the other victor said. Finnick finally glanced around to see he was leaning in the doorframe, arms folded in front of his chest, as if ready to leave at the first infraction. Definitely not sitting down at the kitchen table. “I’m reasonably sure that you and I already had a conversation about how I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“You know, you’re a lot wittier when you aren’t such a mess.”

“You’ve never met me when I wasn’t a mess.”

“I’m not joking, Haymitch. You don’t get a choice. You need to eat.”

“So they kept telling me in rehab, too,” Haymitch replied evenly. “Now explain to me how exactly this here is going to be different. Because from where I’m standing, all I’m seeing is other people running my life for me without asking my permission.”

Finnick clenched his jaw, chopping at the vegetables harder than was necessary. “The difference is that they don’t care about you,” he said. “And I do. A lot. And I hate seeing you like this, okay?” 

Surprisingly, inconceivably, that shut Haymitch up. 

The thing about surviving the arena was, Finnick thought, you couldn’t even once afford to second-guess your strategy. You had to settle on a course of action, and then you stuck with it, at least until something went completely wrong. You couldn’t afford to get swayed, you couldn’t afford to doubt yourself or consider new angles half-way through. You wanted to win. That was all you wanted. You couldn’t afford to care about anything beside that. 

If he wanted to win at the Games of District Twelve, he needed Haymitch in good health and ready to face life. If Haymitch really wanted to escape from it all, he had to prove to Finnick that he wanted it more than Finnick wanted him to stick around. They’d be opponents, until that was battled out.

“You gonna leave me alone after, if I go along with your little nursing home routine,” Haymitch eventually said, not bothering to phrase it like a question. 

Finnick serenely shook his head, adopting his best housewife voice. “We’ve already got plans after dinner, honey.”

“Oh for the love of a dead canary,” Haymitch muttered, out of energy and out of replies. 

“Soup will be ready in an hour,” Finnick said. “How about you try getting some sleep until then.”

* * *

“So this is Fallon Corksmith, from the Seam,” Finnick introduced the girl, careful not to touch her when he stepped between her and her friend, his hand hovering over her shoulder. “And that’s Noreen Lockley, also from the Seam. Fallon can’t work in the mines because she’s got night blindness. Noreen can’t because she has a baby boy. So Fallon will be my housekeeper, and after she’s helped Noreen clean up your house, Noreen will be yours. Ladies,” he added, pointing at Haymitch. “That’s Haymitch Abernathy. Remember that I’m paying you to ignore him if he should say anything unpleasant. Well,” he added after a pause. “Remember that _I_ am the one paying you. No need to be nice to him if he should try to make you uncomfortable or fire you, which he can’t do. Now good luck with the house.”

The two young women gave each other a look that was part just determination of doing a good job for the two bizarre victors, part disbelief about how this was happening to them. Finnick thought Haymitch had to be an unpleasant kind of legend to them rather than a person, somebody who they knew existed but had never expected to encounter in the flesh, never mind while sober. Both of them wore aprons and had bought cleaning supplies at the little shop in town, courtesy of Finnick’s money. When Noreen, who was a sturdy young woman with a big nose, walked past Haymitch, she gave him a sharp look that said to either keep his snide comments or his hands to himself, and Haymitch raised his hands in disgruntled mock defense. Finnick decided that they would get along swimmingly. 

“This is going too far, Odair,” Haymitch said with a low growl, once they were alone in the living room. 

Finnick sat down on the armrest of the couch. 

“No,” he said. “No, it really isn’t.”

“I’ve said to you before that you’ve got no right trying to run my life for me. I’ve got no plans to become your pet project because you’re so alone in the district of your own choosing.”

“Well, somebody has to do something, and it’s not looking like it’s going to be you.” Faintly, Finnick was surprised at how calmly they were talking about this, considering how royally pissed Haymitch had to be. But he guessed that neither of them had learned how to speak up about what they needed; it was certainly hard for Finnick to speak up right now, having to force himself to remember how this wasn’t different from fighting for your life. They’d only ever learned how to keep their mouths shut and think twice – a camera might catch it and they’d never get to take it back. Even now, there could be bugs in this room.

He took a deep breath, remembering how probably nobody was listening in, how it didn’t matter anyway, how this was even what the Capitol would expect him to do. Not that that wasn’t by sheer coincidence, like it always would be. “This isn’t about staying sober, Haymitch. I mean, that’s good, but you’re not alright. You’re miserable. I know you don’t want me here, but now I am, so don’t act like I can’t see it.”

“Ah, I see. Is this where you think that ‘friendship,’ or whatever shoe fits, gives you a right to shape my life to your expectations? Because I’ve done twenty years in this house without any ‘friends’ caring what I was and wasn’t doing, and it worked just fine.”

“Yeah right, apart from how you ended up choking on your own vomit at the foot of a stairway!” Finnick exclaimed in exasperation. 

Haymitch’s expression grew blank, like a window blind rattling into place. 

Well, great. 

“Nobody has ever cared a fuck what I was doing in my spare time in Twelve,” Haymitch growled, and Finnick knew he wasn’t talking about his district, where he was telling himself that he was living in isolation by his own choice.

“Asking for help would have been a start,” Finnick retorted, thinking of the other victors, people like Chaff, and Mags who delighted in playing everybody’s grandmother. “Don’t tell me you ever thought to go to anybody with your problems even once, during Games at least. You don’t _have_ stay on your own, it’s a choice. Nobody is forcing you to hole up here and suffer entirely alone.” Staying in contact with victors from other districts was a little inconvenient due to the censorship, but it was perfectly doable. 

So maybe Finnick hadn’t contacted his family yet, either, since he’d come here. But that was completely different, obviously, he thought and bristled.

“Nobody’s fucking business,” Haymitch huffed, like all of this was flustering him, making him exhausted and angry and helpless, because this kind of conversation, Finnick realized, just didn’t happen to him. He always sent out strong cues that said he didn’t want anybody to get involved, in an environment where people respected each other’s privacy because they had so little of it that it had become a precious gift to grant it. He didn’t know how to not shut people out. 

Haymitch, Finnick thought, had been punished for staying alive first by Snow and then by his district and probably had made himself forget how to ask for anything.

Though if Finnick ever brought that up, he knew he’d be laughed out of the house. 

He hesitated, kicking the side of the couch with his heel in thought and staring at a spot on the wall while he very carefully phrased words. 

Time to change gears completely. 

“The thing is this,” he said with a lot of focus, pausing, and starting anew. “The thing is, I mean, I’d like to give you a little speech here about friendship, and all that, about how important you are to me. And, you know. You are.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, because it wasn’t. Though he thought maybe it was also good for Haymitch to see that it wasn’t. It probably was one hell of a big deal for Haymitch, and that made Finnick just a little bit angry. “I mean, we all know this is fucked up. I want you to be well because you’re my friend, I want you to be sober because of my family, all of that, yes. I think it’s really important that you stay sober even just for your own good. I can’t stand seeing you like this. But that isn’t all there is.”

Haymitch harrumphed, non-committing, though he seemed to be listening. Not ready to buy any of what he probably considered Finnick’s bullshit, but listening. It was interesting how telling him, _This isn’t because I like you_ was getting the job done, but feeling angry like this, Finnick got it suddenly. There were reasons Haymitch would accept and others that he’d just refuse to believe were true, possibly because he didn’t know how it should be possible, or because he was scared to believe that somebody cared. That was weird, thinking of Haymitch as scared, but this was the man who wasn’t able to sleep anymore and who had to be scared of quite a lot of things, in the privacy of his head.

Finnick took a deep breath. “This district?” he said in a measured tone, glancing up at Haymitch. “It sucks.” 

“No kidding.” Haymitch snorted a derisive laugh. 

Finnick tried to make his lips twitch. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean. They don’t like me a lot here, right? They don’t like you either, but they like me even less. Can’t stand the blinding beauty, I assume,” he added sardonically. “And I know, I know you’ve got your way of dealing with that and, okay, I don’t think it’s a very good way, it certainly won’t work for me. But it’s yours. But _I_ don’t… I’m not going to make it in Twelve, Haymitch,” he forced himself to say, brutally honest, doubly self-aware about every word. “I’m going to be here for good, but I don’t know how to… how to deal, here, like this. With you like this, on my own. I can’t… I need a friend, okay? I need you in one piece. I can’t make it without you in one piece.”

“Oh now come on, kid…” Haymitch said, rubbing his face as if willing himself to wake up more, to actually participate in this conversation for real, wake up from that vicious stupor of exhaustion and anger. 

But Finnick waved it off. “I’m calling it the way it is,” he said grimly. “I’m not going to claim I’m doing this just out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t _want_ to end up alone here like you, with nobody to talk to except for the tributes, okay? So, you know what, I know that taking care of you isn’t going to make your life any better. I know that some food, and some sleep, aren’t going to make this suck any less for you. I don’t know, I guess it could be even harder? But they’ll make it suck less for me. And there are ways out of that. We can figure this out together, it’s just a bunch of practical problems, right? You just have to let me help you with them.”

When he looked up again from the spot he had been staring at, Haymitch was just looking at him, his face unreadable. Still, Finnick held his gaze. He remembered how he hadn’t been able to look Snow in the eye, how he hadn’t be able to look at Mags anymore. Looking at Haymitch, it was easy now. For a moment, he didn’t know why, until it reoccurred to him that he had made a choice, that it was him calling the shots – acting rather than reacting, not just enduring the misery. It wasn’t that it felt mind-blowing or even good, but just natural. Strangely absent of pain. This was, Finnick thought, what life should feel like. Like maybe it sucked, but like it was still his.

“You’ve carved yourself a pretty new tombstone here, huh?” Haymitch eventually said blankly. 

Finnick raised his hand, paused it in mid-air. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t want any tombstone at all. For either one of us. We get enough of those at the Games.” 

There were obvious replies to that, snarky comebacks that he’d opened himself up to with those words, and he could read every single one on Haymitch’s face in that moment - _A little too late for that, isn’t it?_ would be one of them, and especially, _Oh wow, you’re in for a big surprise after a couple years of mentoring this district, kid._

But Finnick thought of Bee and Raif and of twenty years of kids just like them, seeing them off to die. He thought, you didn’t lose yourself in the white liquor like that if you didn’t hope against hoping, every single time anew, that they might make it anyway, that this year might be the year it all changed – so much easier to think of yourself as the guy who lost them because he had been too drunk anyway, rather than the guy who didn’t actually have it in him to win. Haymitch had always looked out for the younger victors whenever he was sober enough, not half as jaded as he wished to appear, because Haymitch wanted to hope that it would be better for them. He wanted for everybody’s, Finnick’s life to be better than his. He wanted to be able to believe that the Finnicks and Johannas would, somehow, find a way of breathing freely, like he himself hadn’t since his Games. 

So none of those comebacks came out of Haymitch’s mouth, and silence stretched between them. 

There was a bump somewhere above them on the upper floor, making both of them startle a little until they remembered that they weren’t the only people in the house. Looking towards the ceiling, they could faintly hear Fallon and Noreen talking to each other, cleaning up whatever they had dropped. 

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly too tight, so Finnick said to diffuse it, conversationally, “You know, I _am_ a little worried that they’ll steal some of your stuff. They’re pretty desperate.”

“Nothing that can’t be replaced,” Haymitch said and shrugged it off. 

Then he turned and left the room, never even looking at Finnick again, as though the conversation was finished. But this time, Finnick got a clear sense that he’d just won this argument for good. 

By unusually dirty means, but like he and Chaff had once agreed on the air, good sportsmanship wasn't how you won a Games.

* * *

Getting permission for direct calls to other districts was a pain; forms had to be filled out and Games-related reasons had to be given. Finnick hadn’t even considered calling home yet, not wanting some surveillance agent hearing him struggling for words. Now Finnick made Effie clear a connection to District One, telling her a harebrained tale of a Games strategy consult that exciting her quite a lot. Then he asked the switchboard to dial about the last One victor interested in helping out Twelve. 

Since they both knew how the Games was played, they spent about half an hour chatting about tributes using broadswords versus spears, until they trailed off towards polite goodbye chitchat and Finnick asked what sleeping pills she would recommend for nightmares. 

“Is this a joke?” Cashmere replied after a moment of pause. 

Finnick smirked at the phone. “You know I’d never joke about anything to do with you and I in bed,” he said, having learned from the mistake he’d made with Effie. 

“Save it for the tabloids, Odair,” Cashmere said. “You know it’ll only help my district in the Games if you start falling apart. I suppose whatever in the air of Twelve that has made Abernathy so useless as mentor is starting to affect you as well.”

“Give us a decade and the two of us will be kicking your ass together,” Finnick replied pleasantly. “Now tell me about the pills. I know you folks all take them, and we don’t have a professional here who I could ask.” 

“Well, you’ll probably want something that’ll knock you out all the way,” Cashmere said. 

They were a little weird in One and Two, but they were still good people despite that.

* * *

Just because Finnick had talked Haymitch into letting him help figuring out healthier ways of coping didn’t mean he didn’t have to bully the man into obedience every step of the way. Getting Haymitch to take the sleeping pills was hard. Getting him to lie down on a proper bed instead of sleeping on the couch, on a regular schedule and at an appropriate time instead of whenever he just couldn’t hold himself upright any longer, was even harder. Not helped by the fact that Finnick didn’t know if the thing with the lights was just a way for Haymitch to keep himself awake, or something else. 

“You think I’m afraid of the dark?” Haymitch asked him in a tone like he thought Finnick had lost it, when Finnick eventually, delicately brought it up. As if the whole thing would be hilarious if it wasn’t the most intrusive indignity Haymitch had suffered through ever since they’d stopped selling him for sex. Finnick was just as aware of that as Haymitch had to be. But in the business of survival, you didn’t always get to bother with dignity. 

Finnick gave him an undeterred shrug. “I don’t know anything,” he replied, because sometimes, the only way of dealing with Haymitch’s crap seemed to be countering it with some crap of your own. “You’d have to tell me things for that. Communicate, you know, talk to me – I’m sure you’ve got that concept here in Twelve, too. What I _know_ is that you go to quite a lot of pains to make sure you’ll never walk into a dark room after sunset.”

Haymitch opened his mouth for what was likely meant to be a more or less backhanded insult, then closed it again abruptly. Took a breath. Sighed. Probably remembered that he had agreed to this, so he could just as well do it honestly. “Just makes it harder,” he admitted grumpily. “To remember. Where I am.” Almost angrily, he waved it off. “Easier when I can see that I’m not there. If it’s just dark and there’s some noise – I kind of think I might suddenly be back there. This way, I focus on something, whatever, something I see, and I’m fine.”

While Finnick hadn’t known that Haymitch had a problem with flashbacks, or some variation of flashbacks anyway, he also couldn’t say it surprised him. A lot of victors did. Accidents happened in Mentor Central all the time, painful to watch for everybody, because watching another Games presented the most terrifying trigger of all. 

“Go to bed,” he ordered Haymitch. “We’ll keep the lights on and I’ll remind you where you are at all times, too.”

_Can’t all be meant to be a killer like me,_ Finnick thought, who’d never experienced a flashback in his life. It made him feel almost mournful for himself, which was strange, but looking at Haymitch now, he suddenly thought he would have deserved something, just a small thing, that proved he was a victim, too. It was the strangest thought.

He pulled up an armchair next to Haymitch’s bed and got comfortable with a book, ignoring how they were both adult men and shouldn’t be having any of these problems. 

They also shouldn’t have been forced to fight in a death match as teens. 

Putting his feet on the bed, he made sure they came to rest against Haymitch’s shin, offering that physical anchor to reality, out of an impulse. 

He thought of how Haymitch had always been so unafraid of touching people, of how he connected with the other victors in this physical way, how that might have also been a way for him of reassuring himself of his surroundings, of reality, of how not everything was like the Games even in the Capitol, where everything looked like it could have been taken from the fairytale arena of Haymitch’s Quell. Then, he thought of eleven months a year alone in Victors’ Village with nobody to touch and decided that retaining that ability was a reason for hope. 

“Cashmere says you’re not going to dream while you’re on that stuff,” he told Haymitch. “We’ll wheedle you off it again later, once you’re back on a schedule. So you shouldn’t have any dreams tonight. But if you do, I’ll wake you up and remind you where you are. Without getting close enough to be hurt, yes, so don’t worry about that. And once you’ll wake up, I’ll be here.” 

“You gonna sing me a lullaby, too?” Haymitch replied with a snort. 

“If it would help,” Finnick replied blandly and focused on his book, which he had bought from the book lady in the Hob and which was apparently a novel from the old days, possibly about a war, probably banned. He’d actually thought he’d read it to Haymitch, if that helped him relax enough to sleep, but there wasn’t a reason to share that plan if it turned out unnecessary. If it was what helped little children, if it helped _now,_ he wouldn’t be picky. Picky people didn’t survive as long as he had. 

“You need to sleep, too,” Haymitch pointed out, another way of challenging Finnick, informing him how pointless all this was. “Can’t keep this up for more than a couple of days, and you’ll be back where you started.”

“Watch me,” Finnick said. 

He heard the victor twisting and turning, trying to find a more comfortable position in the same bed that he hadn’t slept in since he came home. It took a while until Haymitch exclaimed a small grunt and reached out to turn off the direct light of the bedside lamp, covering the bed in soft shadows. Finnick refused to raise his eyes off his book and acted like he didn’t notice when in a motion already sluggish from the pills, Haymitch’s hand hesitantly reached out and withdrew a knife from a drawer of the nightstand. He curled his fingers around the heft, half tucked under the pillow. 

Through all of that, he never lost body contact with Finnick, which could almost have been a coincidence if they weren’t who they were. 

_We all need something different to keep going,_ Finnick thought. _We all need something, though._

It felt strange to think that about Haymitch just as much as he was thinking it of himself.

* * *

The situation, very slowly, relaxed into something that approached acceptable, then transformed into something that was even okay some of the time. 

Fallon and Noreen knocked on their respective doors every day, slowly changing Haymitch’s house from a ruins into a place to live, and eventually into something remarkably clean; Finnick’s barely lived-in house, Fallon just cleaned once, then kept pristine.

Finnick hadn’t let the women take charge of the cooking, although they would gladly have taken up the chore for the generous amount of money they were paid. Slowly, he realized how good an idea that had been, appearing on Haymitch’s doorsteps three times a day and equipping the other victor with company on top of food, another thing he thought Haymitch had been in dire need of – a life that included more people than just him. Finnick himself cherished the opportunity of learning something new. He started enjoying being responsible for something as essential as food, figuring out the vegetable mutts of Twelve, no matter he would never be a celebrity chef. It definitely filled him with satisfaction to see Haymitch regaining at least some of his weight.

Haymitch had spent two decades on his own, and Finnick thought, maybe he’d been hiding out from Finnick partly because he’d just forgotten how to interact. He seemed to be most comfortable when he was griping at Noreen, especially once she started griping back; short but scathing sarcasm competitions started ringing through the open windows towards Finnick’s house sometimes. 

Finnick still brought a fair share of their food from Gale Hawthorne. The young man would appear in the evenings during the school week, in the mornings on the weekend, occasionally reserving the good bits for Finnick, a nod at the fact that Finnick had become his best and richest customer. Every now and then, he would throw glances towards Haymitch’s house, knowing Finnick bought enough for two, but Gale never said a lot and was generally very clearly living by a need-to-know rule. 

Finnick in return refrained from asking who his hunting partner was, although he really wanted to know. 

“Your aim is getting better,” he’d said one day, checking over the three squirrels he had bought, each of them shot square in the eye. 

Gale’s eyes had flickered up from the coins he was counting. “Not my aim,” was all he said, and Finnick knew that even that little bit of confirmation was a gift coming from Gale. 

Whoever the person was, they either just never tagged along for the deals or were just too disgusted by the idea of selling to somebody like Finnick. 

It seemed like a small thing when Haymitch decided to accompany Finnick into town for the first time, just appearing at his side one morning when he got on the way, though Finnick knew it was anything but. Cold autumn winds were already blowing through the streets of Victors’ Village harshly at that point, reddening their cheeks, making Finnick take note of how the other man’s face wasn’t looking so sunken anymore, how his skin had started taking a healthier shade again. 

Finnick couldn’t stop smiling to himself for the rest of the day, unnerving Haymitch utterly by deciding to buy him one of Peeta Mellark’s decorated cakes. His pleasure seemed to startle the other victor, who retreated into a particularly grumpy mood for the rest of the day. But he didn’t vanish into the confines of his house any faster than usual. And he did polish off the cake in no time, snorting at the suggestion of sharing any of it with Finnick; he possibly left some for Noreen and her boy, though.

Haymitch wasn’t drinking. More importantly, he was sleeping. Slowly, all through autumn, he was regaining his weight and started filling out his more familiar wider frame. Finnick had been right. Food, sleep and fluids didn’t solve all problems, but they solved some and they did enable you to maybe consider dealing with some of the others.

Finnick would have nodded off in the armchair next to Haymitch’s bed a million times over if that was what it took to pull the other man out of his depression. And currently, it was looking like it was. He was slowly starting to believe that he could really convince Haymitch to try tackling a sober, new kind of life.

* * *

Two days before the start of the Victory Tour, the town council’s preparations for the Twelve stop were already in full swing when Finnick dialed Mayor Undersee’s number. 

“I have a couple of requests for the Victory Tour reception,” he said, not waiting for the mayor to carefully compose himself on the other end of the line, undoubtedly trying to figure out how to tell the new victor where to shove such demands. Haymitch was guaranteed to never have made any. “I know wine and local liquors are traditional, but I want you to take all the alcohol off the menu. Actually, I don’t even want any dish that’s been cooked with alcohol on the table that night. Toasting with juice, I think, would be a nice change.” 

There was a moment of pause. “I see,” Undersee eventually said, and he probably did. The ‘Abernathy situation’ had to have been one of the banes of his existence. “This is a sports event with children, after all.” His voice had next to no infliction. “Alcoholic beverages would be inappropriate. The menu will be changed.” 

It was amazing how rarely it was necessary to actually say things aloud.

* * *

“He looks good,” Bunita Noxton said, leaning against the Justice Building balcony and showing off her endless legs as if entirely unaware of her stark unearthly beauty. It was part of what had made her so popular in the Capitol, of course, her arrogance and cheekiness coupled with the kind of looks that made everybody blink and look twice. She wore her black hair short; it directed attention towards her high cheekbones and pale skin. Standing next to Finnick, her male counterpart, they presented a blinding sight; Finnick didn’t need the cameras going off at them all night to know that. 

Even now, in her late thirties, Bunita, who the Capitol insisted on referring to as “Bunny,” still spent so much time hopping Capitol beds that she rarely ever was allowed to mentor. This year had been an exception, and that exception had saved District Ten’s new victor Tobin McKenzie’s life. Nobody could work sponsors like a whore.

The party was wafting all around them on the balcony patio and inside the building. Stars were shining brightly in the icy sky, heralding first snow, according to Haymitch. Finnick followed Bunita’s eyes to the balcony three windows over, where the man himself was leaning on the railing and quietly, seriously talking to Tobin, who to Finnick seemed pale and shaky and like he hadn’t stopped feeling overwhelmed since he’d left the arena. They’d dressed the boy in crimson as a reminder of the blood smeared all over him when he emerged from the guts of that dead horse. That sight, more than anything, gave Finnick a certainty that Tobin would never be sold. He was handsome enough, now that they’d cleaned him up properly, and hadn’t even gotten close yet to understanding how lucky he was.

Haymitch, meanwhile, was looking equally presentable with his carefully styled black curls, both sober and collected – which now that Finnick had met the senile Twelve stylists thought of as a minor miracle. But Haymitch looked good by himself. If he was craving the alcohol at this particular moment that had to so much remind him of his Games, it didn’t show. He wasn’t anywhere near fine, but he was talking to people tonight, both Finnick and Bunita, making an effort. He’d taken Tobin aside for a chat, and the man who’d been refusing to face his nightmares a months ago never would have been able to do that. 

“One hell of a thing, being the first stop on Tour,” Bunita continued in her Ten drawl that the Capitol couldn’t get enough of, sounding like nothing ever really mattered to her, when everybody else would have come across as provincial with that accent. She’d laughed a lot during her Games, taunting the camera, providing them with a show from start to finish in a unique way, cold-blooded and ruthless and smart in her delivery. “I remember I got here, I was eighteen, I knew nothing, thought I knew everything. Abernathy was maybe, I don’t know, twenty-two. He was hot. Bit drunk, but just for the fuck of it, I think, not the way he got later. But cute, with those curls. I’d seen the way he won, I thought he was a hero. My mentor, that was Cooper, she was weird, she kept creeping me out with her hints about the Capitol and sex stuff and not explaining. Was sure Abernathy would have all the answers. Didn’t, of course. Tried to flirt with him a bit. He said something, like, keep that up and they’ll never stop loving you, then laughed at me lots. Didn’t get it at the time, but he was right, of course. They didn’t.”

She paused for a moment, companionably, high-priced whore to high-priced whore. “Hear he made it his business to tell the newcomers something nice at their reception, later on. Tried to ease them in, since he was the first they got to meet. Felt responsible, I gather, which is stupid, but if any of us were all that smart, we wouldn’t have won. Then I remember how Lyme bitched about him one year – think that must have been during one of Two’s three consecutives, Enobaria or Rubin – how they’d shown up here with one of their good little victors, and he got so piss drunk, couldn’t keep up the good work. You know how the Careers can get, like they know everything, when they know nothing. No offense,” she added, a nod at Four’s recent rise to Career circles, though she sounded like avoiding offense ranged low on her list of priorities. Being what she was, the Careers and Bunita clashed badly. Knowing he was lucky that she didn’t choose to look at him like that, too, Finnick waved it off. 

“It’s hard here for a victor,” he said. “Harder than any other district, I think. I think you’ve got no idea how hard. I wouldn’t stand the first chance of making it here without him.” 

Bunita nodded easily. “Figured as much after that news coverage last Games,” she said. “It’s good to see him getting his shit back together like this. I’ve got no clue…” She paused for a moment, staring at Haymitch and Tobin, still talking, Tobin ducking his head, Haymitch’s low, grim chuckle reaching their ears. He was on tonight, maybe more for Tobin’s benefit than for the camera. “I’ve got no clue what to tell the boy,” Bunita continued. “What the fuck do you tell them? Never thought I’d see Abernathy, of all people, figuring that out quicker than me. He used to be sharp, until he wasn’t anymore.

“This thing with the water drinking tonight, it’s a good thing,” she added. “You’re doing a good thing. Next time you produce a victor here in Twelve, we’ll do that in Ten for your reception.” 

It was said like it was nothing, but Finnick knew Bunita, knew the victors, and he suddenly could picture it, all the stops on tour for Haymitch and his victor, no trace of liquor, not even the local beers and sparkling wines for toasting, a path of abstinence cleared on at least that trigger ride. It was a small thing, but the thing was, people cared. They couldn’t do much more than watch on most of the time, but keeping Haymitch honest was as good a way of defying the Capitol quietly as any. All they needed were the cues. 

He thought what he liked best about that promise was the assumption that Twelve would have another victor one day, and that Haymitch would take him on Tour.


	11. Chapter 10: A Wintermas Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So is this where we exchange roles and I’m the one who stops the craziness?” Haymitch said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I already pointed out in the notes at the beginning, the Wintermas holiday was invented by whipstitch. The whole thing about how Haymitch knows Beetee is lifted from a fic millari is currently working on. Both of you, thank you again for letting me play in your sandbox!

### Chapter 10: A Wintermas Carol

Wintermas rolled around. Twelve days of the “Winter Man” delivering gifts to the Capitol children – since the districts, obviously, hadn’t been good enough to deserve them – while the adults celebrated underneath dying pine trees decorated with tinsel, and a thirteenth day of storming the shops and exchanging the luxury goods for something even more exciting. The districts, of course, wouldn’t have had any money to spare for the gifts anyway; it was pretty sea shells and winter flowers in Four, while Twelve seemed to ignore it entirely. District One suffered hard in sales preparation for the holiday every year. 

Finnick was summoned to the Capitol, of course, spending every night at a different party on the arm of a different date, men and women and one person who seemed to identify as cat. Amongst them were a politician’s young daughter still in her giggling teens, a musician who complained that Finnick couldn’t sing, a jaded aging morphling addict with a special toy chest in his basement. 

He said hello to Cashmere and Gloss and Johanna, posed for pictures with Bunita for a fashion magazine. He did a late-night-show, where he chatted with One’s Dare. It wasn’t just the whores who had been forced to come; everybody wanted to adorn their holiday celebrations with a victor, and if they couldn’t afford a Finnick or Bunita, they were just as happy with a Blight or a Kyle. He guessed he should be happy that Haymitch hadn’t been summoned, now that the media had remembered his existence; these celebrations were brimming with booze and party drugs. Though he still couldn’t help worrying about Haymitch, alone in Victors’ Village. It had been months since his breakdown and Finnick thought he was doing okay; he was sleeping on his own again most nights, though as far as Finnick knew still with the lights turned on – not that that did him any harm. But it was still the first time Haymitch had been left to his own devices since his return. Concern ate Finnick up every time thought about it. 

On his last night in the Capitol, during yet another party at the mansion of yet another celebrity, Finnick was entertaining his date with little made-up tales about District Twelve in the hopes that she’d get smashed enough to fall asleep later without fucking him, when somebody cleared his voice behind him. He suddenly found himself facing Beetee Corelli and Caramel Doll. 

Four’s most popular victor before Finnick had surpassed him, Caramel tended to flee the room whenever Finnick entered it, and Finnick couldn’t say he liked looking the man in the eye any better, considering Finnick had inherited most of Caramel’s clients – considering some of those clients loved comparing them to each other. Now, however, Caramel inclined his head towards the woman at Finnick’s arm, giving Finnick an almost defensive glance, as if daring him to object to his presence. 

“Oh heavens, Finnick, sweetheart, look at that, are those your friends!” Gaia, his date, chirped and tugged at his arm in a delighted way, oblivious as to how she was sounding like a ten-year-old. “And _Caramel_. How lovely to finally meet you again after so many years.”

“There is no day that I don’t remember you fondly,” Caramel replied woodenly, brushing a kiss across the back of her proffered hand. 

Next to him, Beetee’s eyes fell on the woman’s empty glass. “Ah, I see you were just on your way to the bar,” he said nervously, although they clearly hadn’t been. “Miss Aurelia, isn’t it? Would you mind if I accompanied you in Finnick’s stead? I am a great admirer of your work. Your most recent showing was truly inspiring.” 

“I did _not know_ that you were a connoisseur of fashion!” Gaia exclaimed, blind to the fact that this was _Beetee_ claiming knowledge of _fashion_ , slipping off Finnick’s arm and floating off to the bar alongside the Three victor without even as much as a nod towards him or Caramel. 

Uneasily Finnick glanced at the other Four victor, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. 

“Mags says to ask you why you aren’t writing letters and to club you over the head for the answer, no matter what it might be,” Caramel said, face blank and tone expressionless, his eyes scanning the crowd. _He’s just as beautiful as I am,_ Finnick thought, uncomfortable. _They’d still be selling him today if it weren’t for my victory._ “And I’ve been told that your parents are missing you, too.” 

“Thank you,” Finnick replied, sipping at his drink and taking a position next to the victor, automatically making their conversation look casual, independent from whether it would turn out to be or not. “But that isn’t why you had Beetee steal my date.” He hadn’t known these two were close; they seemed like an odd couple. 

In the corner of his eye, Caramel shrugged. “How’s Haymitch?” was all he said, and it reoccurred to Finnick suddenly that both Caramel and Beetee had been there the day Haymitch gave that interview, how both of them had cared. Caramel, Beetee and Chaff. And he remembered that one time Chaff had bullied Beetee into tweaking Haymitch’s console, so that it would play some kind of awful song, as a prank. He hadn’t considered that Beetee might have been in on that joke in the first place. Chaff, of course, would be home in District Eleven. The Capitol didn’t want anything from Chaff, Chaff and his ugly remains of a hand.

So he decided to tell the other victor the truth, carefully making sure that nobody was close enough to hear. “It’s going. It’s been made clear to us that it would be better for him to stay sober. He’s struggling, but he’s getting used to it, I think. I hope he’s okay on his own while I’m here,” he added, because even though this was Caramel, it was good to tell somebody that, sharing the fear.

Caramel gave him an uneasy look, making it clear that he’d rather be anywhere else. “Don’t write him off,” he said abruptly. “He’s tougher than you think.” Then after a second, “Is there anything we can do?”

Finnick look at him with surprise, before he paused to think about it. “Write him a letter,” he eventually said. “I don’t think he knows that people care.” 

Caramel nodded, and that was when Gaia’s laugh drifting towards them again, making both of them turn around. “Oh Finnick, Beetee mixed me a drink from District _Three_ ,” she announced, her cheeks red. When she drifted back into his arms, Finnick was hit by a strong wave of alcohol; he gave Beetee a grateful look before swooping her up and asking her if he could try. 

The other two victors faded into the background, and Finnick dedicated the rest of his night to convincing Gaia that she should have a lot more of those drinks.

* * *

When he returned home, District Twelve was covered in two inches of snow. Exhausted and freezing, Finnick huddled into the warm winter coat Cherry had originally designed for the Capitol, since he’d never have needed it in Four, and made his way across a sleeping town square, past the dead eyes of the Justice Building windows, down the street to Victors’ Village, little snow piles hemming both sides. It was dark already, early in the evening; unsurprisingly, most rooms in Haymitch’s house were illuminated. 

When he unlocked his door, he was greeted by the warm breeze of the heating unit and a recently started fire in the hearth. In the kitchen, bizarrely, a cake was sitting on the counter; Finnick started chuckling hysterically when he saw it. It had a little figure drawn onto the icing, distinctively shaped like Haymitch, showing the viewer the finger. _Merry Wintermas,_ it read. He didn’t even want to know how much it had cost Haymitch to convince the shy baker boy that it was okay to put that on there. 

It told him so many different things, only one of them being that Haymitch had been fine. Finnick didn’t find it in him to go over that night, instead taking a page out of Haymitch’s book and falling asleep on the couch next to the fireplace, blanket wrapped around him. He could have scrubbed his skin raw without feeling like himself again, and he definitely could have slept for days in the hopes of never waking up.

* * *

In the following weeks, dreams haunted him whenever he went to bed. Suddenly it wasn’t Haymitch who was fighting with his sleep schedule but Finnick, who tried exhausting himself by running through the snow during the day and still found himself waking up in the middle of the night, aroused and in tears. After the week in the Capitol, his body wanted more. 

Although he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he was missing his parents. At Wintermas, his dad would take him and his brothers to the pub and buy them a drink, not just beer or watered-down tequila but a “man’s drink,” watching their eyes watering and their coughing spells and laughing at them. It had been years since a stiff drink had overwhelmed Finnick, Twelve’s crazy black market concoction excepted, but on Wintermas, he’d fake the cough, and all four of them would act like they didn’t know that he didn’t belong to them anymore. Every year when he came home from the Capitol celebrations, he’d visit Uncle Lauro’s wife, who was a ropemaker, and buy the finest piece of rope he could find. Then he’d fashion a net, not an arena net but a purely decorative one the style of a fishing net with little beach gems worked into the seam, and give it to Mags as a Wintermas present. She’d laugh at him, but still dutifully mount it in her living room, exchanging it for the previous one. It was a gentle way of teasing the old lady; she held strange contempt for fishermen. 

In District Twelve, there was no family celebration, no mom putting her hand on his cheek and telling him with looks that she didn’t understand but that she loved him despite what he was. Here, his environment wasn’t assuring him with Wintermas traditions that the bad part of the holiday was over. Neither Finnick’s, nor Haymitch’s house smelled of cookies, never mind of ocean salt; when he asked Fallon, she looked at him as if the idea of home baking anything but tesserae bread was pure decadence, and Finnick didn’t know the recipes. He thought of finally clearing a line and calling his mother about it, who would have loved the idea of her son in the kitchen, but he couldn’t imagine how to even start the conversation. Four ran Panem’s salt manufacturing, and so even the poorest among them had salt; Twelve always ran short on spices at the end of the month, and everything always tasted too bland. 

Inconceivably, meanwhile, Haymitch had chosen this time to start socializing with Finnick on his own initiative. While Finnick retreated into himself, trying to ban the memories of the Capitol, Haymitch would eventually knock on his door, brusquely having this or that to discuss. He’d plop down on the couch of Finnick’s living room, looking him over, starting to criticize this or that dish, requesting changes for the next day’s meal and lending a hand, but never allowing Finnick to retreat from cooking duty entirely. This year’s winter was mild, no blizzards in sight, but Haymitch was still telling him to stock up on supplies just because. Noreen’s baby was sick – Capitol knew when she had started telling Haymitch things like that. Haymitch was discussing giving her some days off, since Finnick, strictly speaking, was her employer, although they both knew that normally, Finnick wouldn’t have cared; Haymitch definitely wouldn’t have. 

While Finnick was in the Capitol, a package had arrived from Four. It was from Uncle Lauro, who’d apparently sent it on a whim, because it neither had a letter nor any other content but a couple dozen good lengths of rope. Uncle Lauro rarely ever said much of anything, but had seen Finnick spending many an evening sitting on the porch and repairing his father’s nets, understanding that it made him feel at peace; he likely couldn’t imagine a district without a use for good rope. With soft snowflakes swaying down outside, Finnick spent days on end fashioning a net out of it, a good net, a practical one, using stones he dug up from under the snow at the mines to weigh it down along the hem. He tried not to think of Mags. Then he gave it to Gale.

“What’s that?” the boy asked, catching it out of midair and giving it a suspicious look. He’d just turned to leave after selling Finnick the first winter goosling he’d caught. 

“I built traps out of these in my Games,” Finnick replied. “I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.” If there was anybody in the district who would.

Gale’s face darkened. “We don’t need anybody’s…”

“It’s a fucking gift,” Finnick interrupted him harshly, taking a page out of Johanna’s book. “Happy Wintermas, alright?” Then he shut the door in the boy’s face. He’d made sure that a smart boy like Gale would be able to reproduce the thing if he needed another, using obvious and easy knots, and with any creativity at all, he could use it on his forays into the forest. 

But once he didn’t find anything to do with his hands anymore, he was just overwhelmed by a deep, disconcerting feeling of anxiety again. The snow outside reminded him of Raif and Bee. It tempted him to consider himself in that arena, how he could have survived that without a Career pack or any idea about snow, but he knew that way lay madness. 

Another couple of days later, he was standing with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest at the window of his bedroom, staring at the mix of snow and rain pouring down today in a strange fit of January warmth. Dirty puddles of mud had gathered on the lawns. He’d seen Haymitch trudging over, huddled in a scarf and an oft-mended coat, hearing him enter Finnick’s house and looking for him on the ground floor, then heading upstairs. Like always, there was a short pause when Haymitch arrived at the master bedroom’s door, then a strangely soft knock. Finnick didn’t bother answering, but Haymitch, surprisingly, came in anyway, though he telegraphed his entrance pointedly. 

“So is this where we exchange roles and I’m the one who stops the craziness?” Haymitch said, and Finnick knew without turning around that he hadn’t fully entered the room, was hovering in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest as well, leaning in the frame in that way he had. Haymitch often didn’t quite enter rooms, as if he couldn’t decide if he was invited to or if he even should care about being invited to, or just if he really wanted to make that commitment. 

Finnick pressed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath and trying to pull himself back into the present, starkly aware of his responsibility to take care of Haymitch, of how he hadn’t been doing that. Haymitch was functioning, had been alright during Wintermas, but six months of functioning weren’t enough to cure you from the Hunger Games, never mind an addiction caused by those Games. A lifetime, probably, wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying not to be a hypocrite, expecting Haymitch to share and then not doing it himself. But when he reached for the words, he still found himself reeling, unable to stop them from slipping away again immediately. “It’s nothing. It’s the Capitol. Every year… One more bit of tinsel in my life and I’ll puke, I think.” He tried laughing, bitterly, but it didn’t quite work. There’d been this one client who’d covered his whole bed in tinsel, for some reason, before he fucked him on it. It hadn’t even been a kink thing, just a strange sense of humor. “Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be fine.”

“Well that’s alright then. Good to know you’ve got it all scheduled properly,” Haymitch said, not even trying hard with the sarcasm. 

Then there was a pause, when Finnick looked down to stare at some spot on the windowsill. Haymitch didn’t say anything anymore either, both of them aware how there wasn’t really much that could be said and done when their lives would just always go on and on like this, rinse and repeat, until the two of them were finally old enough to be left alone sometimes. Until new victors had been produced to take their place. But even then, they would still have to deal with the people they’d become. 

Finnick didn’t know how much time passed until he heard Haymitch move. But feet were shuffling, Haymitch’s winter boots on carpet, and he heavily sank down – not on the bed, Haymitch would never sit on anybody’s bed – but in the same armchair that he’d occupied the first night he’d been back in Twelve, next to the wall with the trident. 

There was another pause when Haymitch was probably giving him one of the long and analytical looks that had been following Finnick during recent days before he said, very simply, “Talk to me, Odair.”

Finnick leaned his head against the frame and closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

Haymitch was quiet for another long moment. “I’m not gonna pretend like I know what it’s like,” he eventually said, choosing each of his words carefully, haltingly. “It was different, for me. I was a novelty then, Twelve victor and Quell victor and all, but in the end I was just another coal-haired Twelve kid, token victor I guess. And then other victors came around, more exciting kids.” He was talking of Caramel and Bunita, 53rd and 56th Games respectively, and Finnick was grateful he didn’t say Caramel’s name aloud. It was the first time he’d ever heard Haymitch acknowledge the time they used to sell him in such a specific way. “But I was friends with them.” Again, leaving out Caramel, although now he definitely had to mean him. And although Finnick knew that that time had damaged Haymitch, too. “It does things to your head. You end up… you get all these ideas about what you think is happening to you because you mull it over all the time, right, because you have to keep going. You can’t allow yourself to let it go. And it still makes you feel like shit. But they’re doing it to you. You’re the victim. It’s a crime.” 

Keeping his eyes closed, Finnick didn’t reply, focusing on the tone of Haymitch’s voice almost more than on his actual words. There wasn’t anything he could have said to that. 

He was just grateful that Haymitch hadn’t used the word _rape_ , shuddering even when he thought of it now, this quiet sense of sharp discomfort running all the way down his spine. He thought of his dreams, because they told him that everything Haymitch said was a lie. Haymitch didn’t know about those. 

_The trick is finding the right fantasy while you fuck them, you see,_ he wanted to say. _You don’t want to be there and you don’t want to do it the way they expect from you, but you still have to perform. You want to think of the people he’ll kill if you don’t, but you can’t do that, because you won’t get it up if you think of what your kid sister would look like dead. You’ve got to find something that does it for you, anything. Sometimes, you get lucky and it’s enough to just picture some strangers, something that doesn’t have to do with you._

He wanted to say, _I didn’t start out like this, I hated it at first. I hated it, but my body was still doing what it was supposed to. That’s easy at fifteen, like when you push a button. But things have changed. I don’t think I used to be like this, I think I was normal once, but I’m not now._

He pictured himself as a Capitol citizen, a rich and successful and beautiful businessman, who’d never have to spend a night in an empty bed for lack of being wanted, but who nevertheless snuck out at night into the darkened alleys and clubs that nobody ever talked about, because he wanted other people to hold him down, make him panic. Or maybe it would be the other way around, and he’d want to hurt other people, buy himself a victor. Buy a Haymitch or a Johanna.

Remembering screaming _no_ in his dreams, Finnick felt his eyes burn and fought the need to cry, thinking if you had desires like that, there simply was no telling what kind of person you had the capacity of becoming. 

Behind him, Haymitch was clearing his voice. 

“Every time I came home…” he said and stopped. Then started anew. “Every time I came back from the Capitol, I felt like dirt. I couldn’t stop trying to get clean. It was like I was crazy, like I’d been replaced by this crazy person. I had Lyra, sure…” There was something strained in his voice when he said her name. “…but it hadn’t happened to her and I didn’t want to talk about it with her, she just gave me all that Two bullshit about it anyway. I just wanted it to stop. And then it would fade a bit, anyway, until it happened again. But it would have been better if I’d talked about it. If I’d had somebody who’d set my head straight about it. 

“I was about your age then,” he added, and if Finnick hadn’t been so painfully miserable, he would have snorted at Haymitch, who was making it sound like he was ancient instead thirty-eight. Now he thought, he felt ancient himself.

Finnick wet his lips, never opening his eyes. “What else would make you feel better?”

It felt good to focus on Haymitch, not on what had been done to him but on _Haymitch_ and what kind of a person he had used to be. It felt good to learn things about him. He tried picturing an eighteen-year-old Haymitch Abernathy, barely an adult, still growing out of starvation, with the exotic olive skin and the dark curls and that scowl on his face that said he didn’t trust anybody, nobody should even try. No surprise the Capitol hadn’t understood him enough to keep using him, this anomaly of a victor who’d looked like someone who should lose and still had somehow cheated his way to success. 

Haymitch made a contemplative sound and if he thought the question was beside the point, he didn’t say so, taking his time to think it through. 

“Mending things,” he said, surprisingly, and chuckled without humor. “My ma always made me mend my own clothes, but I was terrible at it. Hands are too big, I figure. I’d still try, though, even once she was gone. It felt nice, getting things back into shape, I guess. 

“Throwing darts. There used to be this corner in the Hob where the miners would meet to throw darts, they’d carve them out of wood. We all wanted to be old enough to play when we were kids. I never ended up going, but there was this fancy dartboard on a tree at Swagger’s.

“Lyra,” he added after a long moment, quietly. “Lyra helped. Just having her there. 

“Later on, liquor.”

There was something soothing to his voice, the ebb and flow of it and the gift that it was, because it was so rare that Haymitch decided to share. It made Finnick think of Wintermas at home, giving away the little things you found on the beach through the year, flotsam of those strange old things that people had dumped in the ocean before the Dark Days. They weren’t anything special, but keeping them for months so that you could give them away to somebody, that was special. 

Taking long deep breaths, he thought of the sea and the way you braced yourself when you swam against the tide, of that confidence of withstanding something so much more massive and powerful than man. Feeling the strain in your arms and knowing that they wouldn’t give out on you yet. Spinning onto your back and spreading your arms, adrift, carried by the water, and opening your eyes to look at a brilliant blue sky. 

Although he knew he shouldn’t, he still opened his eyes now; of course, all there was to see were grey clouds and the last few rain drops drizzling out, snow mud littering the Village. In the distance, the tree line was trembling in the wind like it might fall. 

“Some days I hate this district,” he admitted in a small voice, which maybe was a complete non sequitur but maybe wasn’t at all. It was a failure of his, after all, when he’d been the one who’d wanted to come. It was his own fault. “I miss swimming. I miss the sea. I hate that there isn’t any water around. There’s the creek at the mines, but come on. 

“This time of year, we wouldn’t even swim in Four, but at least you could look at the sea. I don’t know if you’ve ever really seen. It just goes on forever, away from Panem. Makes you wonder what comes behind, how there must be something else out there. And there are seagulls and salt in the air, and the water reflects the sun.”

He could almost feel Haymitch nodding. “Mags showed me on my Tour,” he softly said. “After the banquet at night.”

And then, almost hesitant, “I know it ain’t the same but I can show you a lake, if you’re up for a hike.”

* * *

It was cold and miserable and almost like a day on the move in the arena, but in a good way, a way where you knew that you were safe for now because it was just you and the woods, no mutts to be heard. The forest was dank this time of year; their boots sank into the mud, and melting snow was dripping off the soaked, naked trees. 

It took them almost three hours to get there. They’d ducked out of the district at a weakened part of the fence close to the mines. Occasionally, Haymitch would grab his arm and stop him from walking into the rotten snare a long-dead trapper had left behind. Eventually, Finnick figured out how to watch out for them himself. They were huddled into the warmest coats that they’d been able to find in their closets, and Haymitch had brought one of his knives; but the only wild dog they encountered gave tail once they threw a rock in his direction, and they made enough noise to keep all the other game away. 

It was the first day outside the bland district routine since Finnick had first arrived in Twelve and that, in itself, filled him with an excited sense of freedom, like suddenly the coal dust had vanished out of the air and left only the smell of wet soil and forest, like it was possible to take deep breaths. That alone made him feel like another man. 

Then, they were slithering down a slope and suddenly the lake was uncurling in front of them, silver misty winter water, reaching miles and miles and dodging a peninsula, running out of sight behind it. A giant willow was inclining its head towards the water, almost touching the surface. The whole place would look spectacular in summer, like something out of a fairytale. In a subdued, wintery way, it was breathtaking to Finnick even now, as if the water had the power to swallow you up and never let you go again – keeping you safe. 

“Friend of mine had a gran who showed him this place, when we were kids,” Haymitch was saying behind him, but Finnick had trouble taking his eyes off the water and starting to listen. “We came here, once or twice, but we were too scared of the Peacekeepers to stay outside the fence for that long. Once, we snuck out to go swimming, like Capitol kids in a movie, but none of us knew how and we were just too intimidated to really figure it out.” 

“I’ll teach you how to swim,” Finnick said, following the rocks along the shore across from them with his eyes, the water shyly hitting the ground below him without barely any disturbance. He wondered how rocky the ground would be, whether there would be sand, how far it went down, what kind of fish would be living in here. Trout and pike, he’d guess. He knew nothing about freshwater. He’d never seen a lake like this for real.

Haymitch snorted at him. “You ain’t gonna jump in there and die of hypothermia, are you, Odair? ‘Cause I’m not gonna be the one jumping in after you and saving your sunburned fisherman’s ass. That lake would be frozen if this winter wasn’t such a joke.” 

“Next year you’ll be able to.” It was like a weight had lifted off his chest, a particular weight hiding behind all the others that he hadn’t even known had been there. It wasn’t just because he was standing here, with this spectacular sight in front of him. Or because he was suddenly realizing that he’d thought he’d given up swimming to come to Twelve. It was that he was outside the fence, and he had never been outside of a fence; it gave him a thrill. 

It was that Haymitch had taken him here, uncovering this gem for him. 

“Is there a place we can sit down?”

“Sure, let’s stare at the water for a while, let’s do that,” Haymitch said, but the mockery fell flat when his voice couldn’t hide how satisfied he was feeling with himself, a job well done. When Finnick turned to smirk at him, the other victor’s whole stance had relaxed, shoulders to toes, his tension receding as well.

* * *

They found a stone ledge to sit on, crowning the lake. In summer, they could dive into the water from here; despite the winter algae deadening the surface, Finnick still gathered that it could be deep enough. 

They sat there for a while, trusting in their coats to keep them dry, listening to the noises of the water and the forest, the occasional drop careening down a tree and hitting the lake. It felt as if the whole world were asleep, this free expanse of Panem between districts that everybody pretended didn’t exist. The Capitol claimed to own this, but it didn’t.

With a contented hum, Haymitch picked up a handful of pebbles and started throwing them at the lake. They hit with satisfying little plopping sounds, vanishing out of sight. 

“So how do you know Beetee anyway?” Finnick asked after a while, thinking back to the Capitol, of the meek Three victor abducting Finnick’s date to get her drunk. Those Three cocktails had done the trick, too, leaving her so addled that she had dropped into bed like dead weight and woken up convinced that they had spent a wild kinky night. 

Also, Finnick already knew how Haymitch had grown close to Chaff, since it was the same way Finnick had gotten to know Chaff this year, and he blithely skipped over Caramel. 

To his surprise, Haymitch gave him a startled but amused huff in reply, and Finnick immediately knew that this would be a good story. “’T’was on my Victory Tour,” Haymitch said. “Lyra had gone off Capitol knew where, so Beetee – he was nineteen, I think, he’d won the 47th – he showed me around. Shared some of this weed he used to smoke.” The pause that followed was deliberate, setting up the punch line. “Picked the lock of this fancy guest room in the Justice Building and seduced me on the bed.”

Finnick sputtered, so hard it made him cough. “ _Beetee_?” he asked. “Our Beetee Corelli?”

Haymitch laughed, actually laughed. “Yeah,” he said, waving it off. “He was different then. You wouldn’t recognize him now. He smoked pot all the time, invented all this crazy shit while he was high.” His chuckle turned into something of a hiccup and stopped, though it echoed on in his voice. “First time I ever got it on with a man, too. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, of course. So later, he sent me this massive dildo thing, with directions. For practice, you see.”

Finnick gave him a disbelieving look, trying to ban the imagine of Beetee building sex toys in his lab from his mind and failing. He just kept picturing it, looking like something out of a cartoon. 

“Talk about the history they don’t teach you in Games school,” he said, and Haymitch chuckled again. 

He was used to Mags knowing everything, but here was one thing everybody would make sure the old lady would never get to hear. 

Then he thought of Owin Cagney of the Seam Cagneys, not the candlemaker Cagneys, and his amusement died down. 

“I thought you just don’t do same-sex here in Twelve.” He knew some districts didn’t, not where people could see.

Haymitch made an agreeing sound. “Yeah, it’s all real hush-hush here. Not a right we’ve earned, I guess. Like I said, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, or if it even was okay to feel for men like that. I’d been wondering about that for a long time, never thought I’d find out. But I figured it couldn’t be worse than killing other kids.” Then he added after a moment, “Rarely ever did it with another guy again, either. By choice, I mean.” Covering up the slip in a rush, he snidely said, “Or much of anybody else for that matter.” 

Finnick gave him a glance, opening his mouth, but Haymitch already spoke on, his voice cracking a little. 

“’Course, my girl had just died then. So. So we were clear on how it would be a one-time thing.” 

He took a breath, slowly releasing it, the way Finnick himself had learned to do to calm himself down. 

“What was her name?” he asked softly, thinking nobody had probably asked him that for many, many years, if ever. 

Looking off into the distance, Finnick thought Haymitch didn’t even see the lake anymore. “Alsey,” he replied then. “She had beautiful hair. Braided it in this real special way, a little like Fallon. I couldn’t stop touching it.

“I never thought to bring her here. Should have, though.” 

It was amazing how, sometimes, it was even possible to have a normal conversation for a while, even a funny one about a stoned, young Beetee who sent new victors sex toys for educational purposes. And then, eventually, it all came around to the dead again and how the Capitol was running their lives, and how it wouldn’t ever truly be their lives again because they’d had the audacity of staying alive. 

Finnick wondered how long Haymitch and Alsey had been together before she was killed, and whether they’d already been thinking of getting engaged, and whether Haymitch had sometimes secretly been relieved that she hadn’t been around to see him anymore once Snow started doing all those things to him. 

He wondered if his district’s disgust for who he seemed to be had ever started hurting less, and whether those old school friends had tried staying his friends for a while after his victory, whether they had been the ones to end that friendship or Haymitch. There were a lot of things he could ask about the past, but there were also some about the future. 

“So will you let me teach you how to swim?” Finnick glanced over to Haymitch. He was serious now, not teasing anymore. “Once it gets warm enough again.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Haymitch snorted at him. “Sure, Odair,” he said. “You start talking to me, like a good little victor, once you go crazy in the head again, I’ll let you teach me how to swim.” 

Finnick smirked. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Then he added, “And I’m sorry, you know. I haven’t said it enough.”

“Sorry for what, this time?” Haymitch asked. 

“For getting you into this mess,” Finnick said. “For having to protect my family for me. I don’t know.” He sighed. “I know there would have been ramifications for you anyway, and if I hadn’t volunteered to mentor here, somebody else would have been sent. But, I wasn’t thinking of you when I did it. I was thinking of me. I wish you’d had a choice to stay on your own here, if that’s what you would have preferred. You should have had a choice.” 

Haymitch grimaced. “I’d need Beetee to send me directions if a choice dropped in my lap.” 

“All the more then.” Finnick shrugged. 

One of these long moments of silence fell upon them again when none of them spoke, the ones Finnick started growing used to because they were ceasing to be awkward, starting to feel like a reassurance, teaching him that maybe you could talk about some things if you were given enough time to find your voice. 

So when Haymitch spoke again, Finnick had had time to notice how the shadows had been growing longer, how the very early winter sunset was heralding afternoon; they should head back before they could get lost in the dark. Not that they couldn’t always come back here, what with Cray’s Peacekeepers caring as little as they did. 

“I wouldn’t have made it on my own much longer,” Haymitch said, as if he’d come to a decision. 

“I’d probably have fallen back into the bottle already and died.” 

“Thank you,” Finnick softly replied. 

Haymitch had given him plenty of gifts for Wintermas, he thought.


	12. Chapter 11: The Unbelievable True Backstory of Lyra Ingram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They’re not ours to play with, Odair.”_
> 
> _“No,” Finnick agreed, soft and determined. “They’re ours to bring home.”_

### Chapter 11: The Unbelievable True Backstory of Lyra Ingram

_Dear Mags,_

_I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I know it should have gotten pretty warm already in Four at this time of year. Please remember that you have sons and daughters who can do the heavy lifting for you and Dana. Like her, I worry when you keep working in your garden in that weather._

_I saw the interview you gave during the Victory Tour. Those were some sharp remarks you made about the districts that haven’t been blessed with many victories. It’s going to help our district marketing here and I know that’s why you said it. Thank you for that. Also, loved your hair._

_Living in District Twelve is very different from what you and I are used to. The Games culture is different. It makes me remember what you told me about how it was in Four when you were young, in the days before the fence was moved. People don’t believe they could start faring better at the Games and aren’t likely to listen if Haymitch and I should try to tell them otherwise. They’re anxious to please the Capitol but can’t imagine a way of making that possible._

_Haymitch says to give you his regards. Bunita probably told you how well he’s doing with sobriety, and it’s true. It’s a long road to go, obviously, but I think you’re right when you say that it’s people’s own responsibility to make the best of their situations. I think we’re doing that here, both of us. I didn’t use to be that optimistic, but currently I’m feeling pretty good about things. I get to spend a lot of time with Haymitch, which is nice._

_Mags, I know you were worried about me the last time we met. You probably still are. I remember the conversation we had after I volunteered to move here. I wouldn’t have admitted it to you then, but you probably had a good point._

_Please don’t be worried anymore. I’m fine. I promise. I’m sorry I’m not more like you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make a life for myself in Four the same way you did. Still I’m doing what I need to be doing. All this might not be an ideal solution, but it’s mine. I needed it to be mine. I need to be here._

_Enclosed, I’m sending you letters to Coral, Mom and Uncle Jaime, as I know that mail delivery outside of the Victors’ Rock can be shaky. Please have Hanny or one of your other children bring them over. Tell Uncle Lauro thank you for the rope. I made the best use of it, I think._

_I miss talking to you. I can’t wait to see you again during the upcoming Games._

_All the best,  
Finnick_

_P.S.: I assume you used the opportunity to get rid of that fishing net in your living room finally, huh?_

* * *

“Okay,” Finnick announced while Haymitch’s kitchen door fell shut behind him. “I give up. Why does everybody in your district think that I’m a pedophile?”

Haymitch barely looked up from the pot he’d been stirring. “Oh, that would be because Lyra Ingram slept with a tribute at the 52nd Games.”

Finnick stopped dead in his tracks, eyebrows shooting up. 

He had just returned from a visit to town to buy some candles and other household supplies, and he was just fed up with all of it for once, mothers giving him looks of alarm and dragging their children away from him, as fast as they could, as if he could infect them with a disease. 

It hadn’t even occurred to him that it could _actually_ have anything to do with sex, that he wasn’t just making a little, grim, cynical jab at his own Capitol activities. 

“What?” he said, for lack of better options. 

He could have probably gotten this answer a lot sooner, if he’d ever thought to ask. 

Haymitch smirked at the pot, as if all of it was a fun little story to tell during cooking, almost nothing grim about it at all. 

“Why do you think they sent her back home? Just to show me the finger?” he said off-handedly. “I’m not _that_ important to Snow. No,” he added with good humor. “She got that job done all by herself. Don’t ask me what in the world she was thinking. Probably wasn’t thinking at all.”

“Please tell me that tribute was past puberty,” Finnick managed, feeling slightly sick about his joke. But the other man waved it off with his wooden spoon, looking just a little ridiculous at the stove. It was a relief still, Finnick faintly thought, to see him taking charge of something as ordinary as a meal. 

“Oh, he was old enough, he was… I think he’d just turned eighteen, actually. My age anyway,” Haymitch said. “She… now she was thirty-four and a mother on top of it. No idea if they’d been doing it with each other before his Games already. I walked in on them on the train. Tried to tell her she’s crazy, of course…” He stopped at that, very suddenly, regrouping before he continued in a strained voice that quickly grew careless again. “Tried to tell her a lot of things. But never mind Raymand and I had gone to school together, I was just a stupid kid to her. She wouldn’t listen to me. Wouldn’t even switch tributes with me.

“Anyway,” he continued. “He slipped in his interview. Flickerman asked him if he had a girl waiting for him, he turned and looked at her. All of Panem saw. I came home, everybody thought she’d fucked me too.

“ _She_ never came home,” he added, like an afterthought, and it was weird – he either called her _she_ or by her full name, _Lyra Ingram_ , as if it was a means to keep it impersonal. “Snow sent her straight back to her district.”

“And forced her daughter to volunteer during the next Games as punishment,” Finnick finished, his head swimming from all those juicy bits, the ever new mess of Games backstory. 

Haymitch nodded. “Trish,” he said, more quietly. “That was her name. Yeah. Never made it out of the bloodbath. Media loved the story about her wanting to be like her ma, but she was sixteen and she wasn’t a fighter. She never would have qualified to volunteer normally. The other Careers had her for breakfast.”

Finnick watched the other man for a moment, analyzing the contents of the pot in front of him with the intent of a scientist, his posture all relaxed and aloof, as if he might as well start humming. It reminded him of the younger Haymitch the news channels had shown during last year’s coverage, ever so casual, ever so arrogant in that provocative way, as if nothing in the world could touch him. The television didn’t care about truth or lies, but that Haymitch had always been a lie. Everything had touched him. 

Everything had touched him so much that he’d had to drink it away.

There was something strange in Haymitch’s tone when he talked about Lyra, who had come to District Twelve and tried to give it new hope, twenty-six years before Finnick. Who’d crushed that hope, most likely unintentionally, because they weren’t the legends the media wanted them to be – they were just people. They made dumb mistakes. 

Sleeping with a tribute sounded like a particularly dumb mistake. 

“Were you in love with her?” he eventually asked quietly. Maybe not love. Maybe a crush. Maybe that was all the same if you were eighteen, and people only touched you anymore if they’d bought you for sex. 

_“Tried to tell her a lot of things.”_

_Oh Haymitch,_ he thought with feeling.

Haymitch snorted. “She’d saved my life,” he said shortly. “What do you think?”

So as far as District Twelve was concerned, sleeping around was just what victors did, Finnick thought, sickened when he remembered his own news coverage, his affairs. Maybe Swagger hadn’t, Swagger with his lucky default victory, but Lyra had and they’d seen Haymitch do it for a while. And maybe it was supposed to have been Lyra the Career who’d first corrupted Haymitch, but clearly all victors were sluts one way or the other. Finnick, Career that he was, had definitely done it, the biggest slut of all. No surprise they’d greeted him with so much open disdain. 

Who knew what those victors would do to your children once they brought them to the Capitol, out of your sight. It was just that there was nothing anybody could do about it, another facet of the Capitol’s punishment. 

Then he looked at Haymitch, and it occurred to him that Haymitch had lost Lyra in two ways, because she’d preferred to sleep with another boy, a doomed, less damaged boy who hadn’t been sullied by the Games yet the way he had been, and because the President had taken her away from him after that, leaving him behind alone. 

The people Haymitch loved just kept getting lost along the way. 

Yet he’d just told Finnick the truth of the matter, for no reason but the fact that Finnick had asked. Because Finnick had needed to know. 

Good thing that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere. 

There were so many different positive things he felt about that man. 

“What are we having?” he asked, stepping up close enough to smell a faint whiff of soap emanating from Haymitch’s direction before the steam from the pot waved it away. “Smells interesting.”

Haymitch hummed appreciatively. “It’s Sae’s recipe,” he said. “I grew up with it. I’d advise we call it beef stew and leave it at that.”

* * *

The last of the snow had long since melted in March, already heralding an early warm summer. The grey clouds covering the sky were a first this week. Gale Hawthorne, who had grown another inch, was huddled in a warm coat splattered with mud when he came walking into the backyard. The game bag wasn’t carried by him but by a girl his age, hair tamed by a long braid.

“That’s Katniss,” Gale said. “She’s the one who shoots them in the eye.”

There was the faintest challenge in his words; it was the first time Finnick had heard him use that many of them at once when he wasn’t talking money. Also interesting was the sharp look the girl gave her hunting partner now. There were things you just didn’t say aloud, except if you’d made a decision to trust somebody no matter what the district said.

Finnick brushed the dirt off his palms before he offered her a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Those are impressive shots on a moving target.”

Katniss eyed his hand, taking it firmly but briefly, her eyes flickering across his face and taking in his beauty, followed by what was probably a resolution to never feel attracted to it. Considering she had to be about fifteen, Finnick couldn’t but think of Lyra and shudder at that whole train of thought. 

“There wouldn’t be a lot of the squirrel left to sell if you hit them anywhere else,” she said in a guarded voice as if to convey, _No thanks_. 

Gale looked from one of them to the other. “Kat’s dad died in the same cave-in mine did,” he said, unexpectedly, in that low, deceptively mature tone his voice had settled into through the winter. “She’s taking care of her kid sister now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How old is your sister?”

“Turning eleven.” Kat’s eyes blazed at that, warning him off. 

_You can’t have her ever._

_I’d gladly take you and your bow over any child any day,_ Finnick thought, quirking his lips at her and making sure she read it on his face. There’d been a time when he wouldn’t have known how to talk to anybody, not even a fifteen-year-old, without flirting with them. But resolving to not care what this district thought of him had proven strangely liberating. Living with Haymitch had; the other victor rarely could be bothered to care about what people thought.

“You know,” he addressed Kat. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a bow, and I get bored. I’d make it worth your time if you would teach me. I’d pay in coins, or teach you how to use a spear in exchange.” 

Kat’s face grew even blanker. “A spear isn’t a good hunting weapon,” she countered, raising her chin. “It’s only good for killing people.”

_Fair enough,_ Finnick supposed, refraining from pointing out how that skill could still come in quite handy for someone mid-Reaping age, and turning towards Gale. “What have you got for us today?”

Game had been sparse this winter, but it seemed like the goosling had come back from the hills and it was the time of year when deer started venturing close to the fence. Gale offered him two bass he’d caught, which Finnick declined; he’d bullied Haymitch into the adventure of going winter fishing with him, when he’d never used a rod before outside of arena training, where Mags herself had taught him how to make a hook. It had been strangely calming to get Gale to confirm that he and his partner fished at a different lake, far away from theirs. 

He wasn’t surprised when Kat started tagging along after that when Gale came to sell, and sometimes, when Gale was busy, she came on her own. Finnick couldn’t help but feel like he had passed some kind of district test that only natives understood.

* * *

“So I’ve been thinking,” Finnick said. “It’s just another couple of months until the Games. I want to try putting our tributes on a diet.”

Haymitch had been sitting in Finnick’s living room, putting a lot of focus and grumbling into mending a sock, and Finnick had plopped down on the armchair across from the couch, sprawling out and waiting for Haymitch to look up at him. 

He did him the favor, eyebrows raised.

“This I have to hear,” he said and squarely placed the sock on the table. 

Finnick got more comfortable. “Well, I think it’s a very good idea,” he said. “Most years’ tributes are starving. Even the merchie kids tend to be a little malnourished. So they hop the train and load up on Capitol food all week, right? But they can’t handle the sugar and the fat, they’ve never eaten that kind of food before, and they end up fighting it out in the bathroom when they should be focusing on training. Then, when they’ve barely gotten a grip on _that_ , they enter the arena where they starve again and eat raw meat and plant roots. Now in Four, it’s easier, we just feed them fish because they’re used to fish and it’s easy to digest. And the other Careers pump theirs with proteins and steroids even before the Games, anyway.”

“You ain’t gonna transform two starving kids into Careers by changing their diet,” Haymitch pointed out, looking dubious and like he was barely stopping himself from laughing at Finnick, not in a positive way.

“No,” Finnick agreed, undeterred. “But it’ll help them acclimatize to the arena and it’ll make it easier for them to focus on winning. Now, I don’t know what they should be eating, either. But we can get a Games consult through Effie and have them figure out how to best feed them up through the week without…”

“I don’t think so,” Haymitch interrupted him, suddenly sounding resolute in a deceptively calm and too even way. Then he reached for his sock again, humming something to himself while he tried to pick up the needle again with clumsy fingers. 

Finnick frowned. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from Haymitch exactly, but at worst, it would have been the other man humoring him for a while, then giving Finnick a detailed explanation of how he’d had a bad idea. But he’d just brushed it off, when it wouldn’t even have been that big a change. The whole reaction filled Finnick with a bit of alarm, having to suddenly consider the notion that maybe this was how Haymitch, who wasn’t a Career, dealt with mentoring on principle.

“You could at least hear me out,” he said, holding a tight rein on his voice.

Haymitch was eyeing his sock. “You’re talking of two starving kids who haven’t had a decent meal in their lives, and who’re about to die. I’m not gonna take away their last meals that they’ll ever get.”

_If they’ve never had a full meal in their lives, they won’t know the difference anyway,_ Finnick edgily thought but knew better than to point out. 

“I’m not suggesting we take food away from them, Haymitch. I’m talking about making sure they’re served healthy things they can digest well, instead of whatever people will be puking up in the vomitorium that season. They just eat what’s in front of them, they need us to make those decisions for them.”

“A potato peel diet or whatever ain’t gonna save their lives.” 

“Funny.” Finnick rolled his eyes at him. “You want everything to stay the way it is? The way it is, Twelve isn’t standing enough of a chance at anything but a completely coincidental victory. I know you don’t need me to tell you that. We’ve got to start with the little things we can change right away, right? The big things, we can handle those later. I mean, the food probably isn’t going to make a world of difference, but it’ll keep improving their odds in small ways like that and they might just start averaging Final Eight. I think we can agree that that’s a good first step?”

“Newsflash, Odair,” Haymitch said with a harsh edge, looking up at him sharply. “It doesn’t matter how you place on the Games position table if you’re dead. Only ones who care about that are those freak geeks from _Cornucopia Magazine, your must-read for Games marketers and sponsors_.” 

Finnick was already shaking his head decisively before the last words had left Haymitch’s mouth. “No, you just can’t think like that. There isn’t a magic trick to get from the worst district stats to a victory…”

“Actually, statistically speaking, Eleven’s currently the worst,” Haymitch said, probably just to show he had his numbers down like a good little mentor. He continued with a deadpan fake Games commentator voice. “They’ve got three victors to Twelve’s two, but they’ve been struggling to achieve victory again five years longer. Some Games experts have argued that that makes them even more pathetic.”

Finnick gave him an annoyed look. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not like I’m proposing transforming Twelve into a Career competitor. But you know how it works. All districts were bad off at first. But once there are more victors, there’s more food and that eventually means stronger tributes. Next, you get fans and sponsor attention. 

“It’s not that hard to make Final Eight, because nobody else angles for that, everybody angles for victory in this all-or-nothing kind of way, like when they send their kids into the bloodbath. So we start getting them into Final Eight and maybe one will even make it further, but even if they don’t, with better stats to show for, we’ll have an easier time getting a sponsor once we get a real contender. And it would give the tributes more hope. You weren’t there last year, but Bee and Raif were just convinced that Twelve never wins anyway, and you can’t change things with that attitude.”

“So what now, you want us to start lying to them on top of changing the food?” There was a dangerous kind of amusement in Haymitch’s voice, taut like a bow aimed for a shot.

“No!” Finnick exclaimed in exasperation. “I want to _actually change their odds_.”

“You’ve got no idea what you’re even talking about,” Haymitch said. Abruptly, he pushed the sock away, getting up and rubbing his face as if, Finnick noticed with alarm, he was trying to stop his hand from shaking. 

Automatically he started standing up as well, but paused when Haymitch jerkily moved to the window, crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest and staring into the night, perfectly still. 

Not entirely sure what was going on and what to make of it, Finnick settled on leaning against the armrest of his chair so that he could glance at Haymitch in profile. But the other man’s face was expressionless, betraying nothing. 

He knew that mentoring for so many years had badly damaged Haymitch, more so maybe than the whoring and the Games. Finnick was reasonably sure that mentoring had been the major reason for why Haymitch had started to drink. But he still hadn’t expected the other man to cut him off like this, with so much vigor. 

Haymitch was clenching his jaw, eyes trained at something unseen outside and obviously fighting to keep the conversation going while still holding onto a semblance of composure. 

“Almost every year,” he ground out, like it cost him. “Almost every year, Odair, whenever I’ve got tributes who’ll actually listen to me – Capitol knows that’s getting rare – every time, I have to tell them to run into the bloodbath. And no. It’s not because I need them to just get it over with. Not that I’ve ever done _that,_ ” he added snidely, self-depreciatingly under his breath. “It’s because this isn’t fucking Four, they’re so damn frail every time and they’ve got no idea how to survive in there, and they’re from Twelve, so not a single sponsor’s gonna listen. There ain’t a chance they’ll make it for a day without supplies. So I tell them to get the supplies. If they don’t, yeah, at least it’s over faster for everyone involved. If they do, great, I’ll have something to work with for a change.”

Finnick took a breath to clear his head, still thinking that maybe if he just made his point, Haymitch would listen. At least, he was talking to him now, so they could get to the bottom of this. He wet his lips, casting for arguments. 

“It doesn’t have to stay like this though, does it?” he asked, knowing full well that he still was the apprentice, and Haymitch was the veteran; he didn’t _know_ that he made sense. “I mean, things are changing if we want it or not. The Capitol is expecting a story from the two of us, what with you being sober and me being here. They _want_ to give us their attention right now, we’re never getting that chance again. We can work with that attention, we can give them a story that’ll keep them interested, if we show progress. At least we won’t feel so damn helpless about it if we try to change it,” he added bitterly, because even he had gotten a strong taste of that helplessness already. And across the room, Haymitch just hardened his face more. “We have to stop them from thinking of Twelve tributes as interchangeable. We can make them love those kids _because_ they’re from Twelve, because they’re recognizable.” He knew he was sounding like Mags now, what she had done for Four but he didn’t care. He’d gladly sound like Mags any day. “Sure we have to start small, but we have to _start._ And we’ve got _years._ ” Decades, even. They had a whole life, whether they wanted to or not and that was exactly what Mags, on a cheeky day, would choose to call a business opportunity. 

In a hesitant voice, he added, carefully, “I don’t understand what exactly this is about” because no, Haymitch wasn’t clamping down about this because he was married to some sort of dieting philosophy. Between the two of them, Finnick was the one obsessing over what to eat and how it influenced his physical appearance – Haymitch just ate. 

At the window, Haymitch remained frozen. The glass of the window was mirroring his face for Finnick to see from the front, freshly shaven and tight in a disquieting, tense way and beyond that, plain unhappy. Like he could feel the weight of the world, and like it was crushing him underneath.

“You think I don’t know how to draw it out, you’re wrong,” Haymitch eventually muttered. “That’s not an issue. Sure I could send them away from the Cornucopia. So they’d starve instead, or die by mutt instead of Career. Use up a sponsor to keep them going another day, yes, but I ain’t got a lot of those left. And then I can’t use them anymore when it matters.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Odair. It can’t be changed. It’s better my way. It’s quicker. No need to play around with what they eat.” 

“So you’ve got it all figured out, is that it? I mean, I know I’m pretty new at this. But I still know that that isn’t what the sponsors are seeing when you do it like that, and I _know_ that you could come up with better plans, way better plans than I’ve got right now. All the sponsors see is tributes running to the Cornucopia although they should know better, then call it bad mentoring. Then when one of them makes it anyway, they call it good luck. We need to start making them believe that _we_ know what we’re doing, then improve the stats and impress them with that. Half of the Final Eight every year are random loners who’ve just been hiding out, and then some of those _win._ ”

“I don’t give a fuck what they think of me,” Haymitch snarled, punching the windowsill hard enough that it rattled and fully turning away. 

Catching a glimpse at his distraught reflection, Finnick desperately tried to understand if maybe this was something to do with Lyra, something she had said or tried or done, then discarded that notion out of hand. This wasn’t about Lyra, this was about Haymitch, about the two of them maybe, about something that was happening _now._

“Talk to me?” he helplessly begged.

Lowering his head and cooling himself off by sheer force of will, Haymitch’s face was working now, like he was trying to get something out but not knowing the words. 

“Damn, I need a drink,” he muttered and Finnick couldn’t help it, the announcement alone sent a cold shiver down his spine. Haymitch took another shallow breath. “You want to know what’s going on, I need a fucking drink when I’m supposed to make up any _plans_ to save them, Odair.”

And Finnick realized, all of a sudden, that Haymitch had to have spent all his time since rehab just not thinking about the next Games. He’d been drinking to be able to sleep and they’d dealt with that, Haymitch could handle insomnia. But being drunk had meant not having to think about the Games, too, it had meant not having to face how many times he’d tried but all his ideas just hadn’t ever been enough. 

Seeing Haymitch, who usually closed off so easily, struggling with his composure just because he’d been asked to discuss this, Finnick felt a terrible pang when he understood that this was to Haymitch like his clients were to Finnick. He could never do it right. It left him hating himself, knowing he did everything wrong and he was just breaking everything further apart with everything he did. Nothing could ever make it right.

Finnick found himself swallowing compulsively, casting in his mind for the right thing to say when he knew there was nothing that could ever be done. They’d have to end the Hunger Games to make this stop. 

“I think,” he said and caught himself, starting anew with a stronger voice that didn’t break, after all. “I think you don’t need any alcohol to deal with this. You’ve just been doing it on your own for too long. Shit, even the Capitol realized that, right? Nobody can do it on their own. I don’t think there’s anything you could have done better. 

“But you’ve got me now, and we can do it together, alright? You don’t need to drink for that.” He felt shaken, knowing he didn’t know well enough what he was doing. There was one victor, Dune from District Nine who’d been tortured during her Games and even hearing the word set her off. He wasn’t even sure if it would be like that for an addict, if even saying the words would shake Haymitch. “And we don’t have to talk about it now. We can talk about it some other time, or I can do it alone and you can stay away from all of the mentoring as much as you can, if that’s what it takes. You don’t have to do anything.”

That wasn’t what he’d ever planned. He’d always thought he’d be doing the mentoring with Haymitch. Finnick didn’t know if he could even do that, fully take over mentoring both tributes while Haymitch stood back and just made appearances for the camera, whether he wouldn’t just end up like Haymitch if he tried keeping that up. But he realized he still had to offer that now, because he needed Haymitch to be stable and sober more than he needed his help. If for no other reason, it was his responsibility because it was his family who’d have to pay the price if Haymitch wasn’t.

If he was suddenly thinking that he also couldn’t bear losing Haymitch to despair again, this wasn’t the time. 

But that proposition wasn’t what Haymitch reacted to, anyway, clutching the windowsill and staring into the night with wide eyes. He didn’t even comment on it. 

He said, as if it cost him, “You want to make things harder for all of the tributes so that a chosen few can profit from it later.”

That put Finnick to a full stop, hesitating for a beat before he answered. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.” 

After another moment, he added, “Are you sure…”

“Save it for somebody else.” 

Haymitch had cut him off, his reflection stiffening its jaw. 

“There’s nothing you can change,” he informed Finnick. “Maybe they’ll make Final Eight more often, doesn’t mean they won’t suffer and die in the end.” 

“Things are different now,” Finnick disagreed. “We can’t know that if we don’t try.”

“They’re not ours to play with, Odair.”

“No,” Finnick agreed, soft and determined. “They’re ours to bring home.”

Haymitch took a breath at that, deep and shaky, just filling his lungs and releasing it again unsteadily.

A long moment of silence passed, just them and the sticky air of the living room, the last cackles in the fireplace that they hadn’t bothered rekindling when it ran out of coal earlier in the evening.

“Okay,” Haymitch said, in a voice that wasn’t quite his own. “Okay, let’s try the food thing for a stretch, let’s start with that.”

Knowing that Haymitch was trying so hard to do it properly, for the tributes and the district and not for Finnick, Finnick stopped himself from saying thank you in reply. 

“Okay,” he said as well. 

It went unspoken that they’d be discussing the other propositions, too, and maybe Haymitch would agree with them and maybe he wouldn’t, but he would try not brushing them off instinctually when he thought he couldn’t handle them. He’d be throwing in his considerable smarts and expertise, as much as he could make himself without falling apart. The objective would be starting to bring more of them home. 

_It’s true. I couldn’t bear losing him,_ Finnick thought. It had nothing to do with his family, and it scared him a little, how strongly he was feeling it and how different it had already become from his need to protect Coral or Perri. 

“Want to stay here tonight?” he asked, thinking of both the alcohol that Haymitch had professed to missing right now and the insomnia that sometimes started to return. He still, sometimes, spent nights at Haymitch’s, guarding his sleep; they avoided talking about that, acting like there was nothing to it.

Breathing so deeply that the sound rang through the room, Haymitch eventually nodded. 

“I’ll fetch you a sleeping pill then,” Finnick said and turned to go, but when he had another look around, he noticed that Haymitch had been using the window himself to follow Finnick’s reflection with his eyes, seeming unable to pull them away even now that Finnick had noticed. 

There was a pause. Haymitch was very still, just looking at his face in the window, unreadable to Finnick. 

“What?” Finnick said. 

Haymitch shook his head. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.


	13. Chapter 12: Spin Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Finnick smirked suggestively at him._
> 
> _“Skinny dipping,” he drawled._

### Chapter 12: Spin Control

A first wave of spring warmth hit the district out of nowhere in April, and Finnick decided that the time had come to go swimming. 

“Is this where you go crazy again?” Haymitch asked him dubiously when he announced his plans during breakfast that morning, though he was lacking in malice; the look he threw Finnick across his kitchen table, chewing on a piece of bread roll, was almost fond. 

Finnick snorted at him. “Why, just because you take issue with work-out routines, there’s something wrong with swimming, too?”

“Water’s gonna be _cold,_ Odair,” Haymitch pointed out in a disbelieving voice. “This ain’t District Four, where the sun even shines out of people’s asses.”

“Oh, I’ll swim in the cold, and you’ll be right at my side.”

Sometimes Finnick wondered if anybody from the Capitol ever bothered listening in on this, day in and out, but if they did, he guessed they had more important things to do than stopping two victors from committing the minor offenses of leaving the district and having some fun. Not that the latter one wouldn’t be an unforgivable crime to Snow, but Snow also probably had better things to do than reading surveillance reports on fifty-something victors that hadn’t raised any red flags all year. Chances were that the Capitol had more important things to do with its resources. 

Haymitch harrumphed. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Finnick smirked suggestively at him. 

“Skinny dipping,” he drawled. 

Haymitch’s face grew dark. 

“…or just underwear will do,” Finnick amicably changed gears. 

Now it was Haymitch’s turn to snort. 

“I don’t know why I keep doing these things for you,” he muttered around a mouthful of bread. 

It left Finnick feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

* * *

The day was warm, but the sun had never breached the trees; the forest itself was cold and glum. Every now and then during their hike, though, a beam would make it through and cover a patch of greenery in brilliant gold. 

It wasn’t anything like an afternoon at sea in Four, hitching a ride on his father’s shrimper with a vague plan to dive in head first, sun sparkling hotly above. But Finnick eventually came to the conclusion that he didn’t mind. He didn’t want another Four. He wanted something different, something new, something that he’d helped create. 

Haymitch spent most of the hike uncharacteristically quiet and focused on his steps, but when he spoke up, it was to point out landmarks or bird mutts in the trees that he knew Finnick, still new to forest life, would get a kick out of watching. They both knew most of the Panem fauna from the Games, but it was different to get to know this new wilderness that he’d never thought he’d be a part of. The arenas were well-measured, well-tempered creations meant to entertain and kill, perfectly artificial, and this was nothing like that. Last autumn’s foliage had left dried puddles of mud behind, and they found bird nests on the ground that had been abandoned when the flocks left for winter, wind or other animals knocking them down. 

Halfway through the hike, Finnick still broke into a ramble about fishery and ocean tides and what to do if your boat engine died off shore, filled by a quiet need to remind himself of who he was; Haymitch let him go for it, listening closely, asking questions about this and that as if it might just come in handy one day. 

The trees cleared up to make way for their lake, the water gleaming brightly, as wide as eyes could see. The moment they reached the clearing, the air heated up above them; sun fell onto their faces, heralding the very first glimpse of summer. 

They dropped the bags with food and changes of clothes that they’d brought at their usual spot, in the grass close to a patch of shore.

“You go ahead,” Haymitch said, gesticulating towards the lake. “Get it out of your system. I’ll be here where it’s dry and nurse my dignity as long as I still have any of it left.”

Finnick snorted at him, but still resolved that he wouldn’t allow Haymitch to feel awkward once he got him wet. Though all he said now, categorically, was, “Everybody should know how to swim.”

He was already pulling himself out of his shirt, working his pants open while it sailed to the ground. He didn’t need to be told twice. Smirking at Haymitch when the other man made a face, but Haymitch had already gotten comfortable in the grass, looking quite at ease otherwise. And Finnick’s attention was already drawn in by the lake, the water unfolding, not the ocean he was used to but begging him in nevertheless. 

He knew better than to just dive into foreign waters, so he waded in at the shallow end, water tickling his calves and knees and crotch. It was so cold that his breath hitched; muscles all over his body contracted reflexively. But it was _wet_ and it gave him a different chill to realize how much exactly he had missed this. 

Kicking off the ground, Finnick refused to balk at the temperature. He took off, covering distance with long powerful strokes. It was only moments until the warmth of exertion started filling him, and the water just became that mighty custom-made mass. 

There was nothing special about swimming in Four. He’d always been at home in the water, unable to even remember a time when he hadn’t known how to swim. As he reached Reaping age, he’d taught it to younger relatives from the inland villages like a good Four boy was expected; on his father’s and uncle’s boats, his brothers and he had always just dived in once they were out in the open, when it was just them and the waves and that tickling sense of depth.

Here, swimming was a gift. Finnick spun through the lake, feeling for the perfectly even rhythm that his breath had settled into, motions his muscles automatically corrected, another kind of home – as if this was his own body still. Strands of hair glued to his temples on emerging strokes, no matter what it would look like on camera, the sandy, cool scent of the freshwater filling his nostrils almost parenthetically. 

It was exhilarating; even in Four, when he swam, the sea had never let him forget that he could never bend it to his will. He could never conquer the water. But he could play it, use it to swim with the tides or against them, ducking away under waves or letting them carry him along. He didn’t have to conquer the world to be in charge now, both free and safe. 

As far off shore as it got, he curled into himself in a measured, smooth motion and let himself sink. The noises of the water and forest cut off, and nothing was left but a cloudy wall of underwater life, the last strands of dead winter algae wafting by, schools of fish rushing out of sight in alarm. It was perfect down here, it was calm – as if the world was standing still. An ocean could never be that calm. 

It wasn’t quite that he’d never want to leave this place in that moment, but he’d certainly always want to come back, because it was his already. 

It felt like the Capitol could never hurt him down here. It felt ludicrous to think that he would never be the one in his life who decided what to do and where to go. It felt as if the Flickermans and Templesmiths could never mean anything to him but as a challenge to be taken. As if he could play with the media, too, like with the sea, letting him carry him along. 

When he broke to the surface again, his lungs weren’t even all that greedy for air yet, still so used to the exercise. Finnick spread out his arms, sprawling out on his back like he had wanted to do for months, feeling light. The sun was directly above, so bright that it seemed white amidst the spring sky. He could feel every tendon in his body bending to his will, making it placidly relax onto the lake. 

_“I can’t keep it? I thought I could keep it,”_ he remembered saying to Flickerman at fourteen and then bringing his trident home, the way there had been nothing Snow could do. He remembered sprawling in his chair at the talk show leisurely and the way the cameras had captured the way he’d offered them the incentive of skin. _“You want me to mentor for Twelve?”_ he’d asked the crowd and changed his life. _“Sure. Why not?”_

Why not, indeed, Finnick thought and smirked at the sun, okay with his world and his life, just in that instance. 

It didn’t pay to forget all the things that he still had the power to do, all the decisions that he still could make, especially with a friend like Haymitch who gave him a lake as a gift. He wouldn’t sink, he was too good a swimmer for that. 

It took a good long while until he spun around and made his way back to the shore.

* * *

When Haymitch had undressed and was wading into the water after Finnick, there was a carefully bland edge on his face that told Finnick there were things going on inside of him that he really didn’t want Finnick to be part of. 

It was obvious that it had a lot to do with dressing down in front of someone else, after having been told for so long that his body wasn’t living up to the standards – no matter a part of him had probably made himself unappealing to Capitol people on purpose and therefore safer, that also had to mean he thought that he was, indeed, hard on the eye. But obviously, it also had to do with literally leaving the element he was comfortable in, entering a foreign one that he didn’t know how to master, lacking an ability he probably thought he should already possess. The majority of victors knew how to swim; there actually was a group who joined up during Games every year to use the opportunity of visiting the plush Capitol facilities. 

Finnick realized that he had trouble taking his eyes off Haymitch, getting his first opportunity to look at him dressed in that sparse way without layers of clothes and Capitol costumes covering him up – he didn’t think Haymitch was unappealing at all. Haymitch had eventually filled out his normal heavy frame again through winter, though it looked healthy on him now, exactly the right weight. Finnick still felt drawn to his beer belly; Four had food but not that much food, and in the Capitol, people who looked like that wouldn’t have the social status to meet people like Finnick. 

At least, he had the good sense to focus on something else when he noticed Haymitch’s eyes on him in turn. He shouldn’t be looking. He himself grew uncomfortable when other people scrutinized him like that, too. 

That was all. 

“You know you don’t actually have to do this,” he felt obliged to say. While he loved the water, it was clear on Haymitch’s face that the other man wasn’t so sure. “We can still always call it a bad idea and just go home.” 

“Little late for that now,” Haymitch said after just a moment of contemplation and trudged into deeper water after Finnick with a focused look on his face, as if unsure what to do with his arms while he did. “Just save me once the cold gives me a heart attack.”

Then he glanced at the water all around with a faint expression of distaste and added to himself, “This better be good,” making Finnick smile. Haymitch wouldn’t allow anybody to get that close unless he was trusting that person a lot, that was a fact. 

Of course, all Haymitch ever seemed to expect from others at all was a little kindness and respect from fellow victors, and even that, he didn’t demand. Begging him to follow into even deeper water, until it reached Haymitch’s shoulders and Finnick’s chest, Finnick tried to imagine how lonely and just exhausting that had to be. 

“I’m going to teach you how to stay afloat first,” he said, thinking that in his own way, Haymitch already was an expert at that. “So if you end up in deep water without me or if your strokes don’t work out as they should during practice, you won’t sink. It can take a while to get the hang of it, but it’s fairly easy after that. Either you do it by treading water, or you just float on your back.”

Haymitch gave him a doubtful once-over. 

“Tell me you’ve done this before.”

“Teaching? Sure, dozens of times.” The Capitol had a lot of romantic ideas about Four and their idyllic lifestyle of frolicking on the sunny beaches, but the part where they all swam like fish just happened to be true. It was too big an arena advantage to not be taught excessively, and everybody helped out. 

Haymitch grimaced. “Alright,” he said. “Good luck trying.” 

Finnick hesitated. “Can I touch you?”

“Sure, do that,” Haymitch said and froze only barely when Finnick did, stiffening and, a beat later, already rapidly relaxing into his touch when Finnick moved to stand closely behind him, hands on his back. Finnick told himself that there was nothing special about that; Haymitch had never been afraid of physical contact, and they’d touched plenty of times when Finnick guarded his sleep. But this was still different. Seeking out touch and relaxing were two different things. Haymitch felt cool and sturdy underneath his hands and like his body had decided to trust Finnick. 

He proceeded to show Haymitch how to go slack for Finnick to tow him, sparked by a distant fear that something might go wrong in the middle of the wilderness, nobody close enough to help. Then he taught him to tread water, so that he wouldn’t have to rely on Finnick. They didn’t venture further out. Finnick cherished the thrill of knowing he could sink but that he just wouldn’t; instinctually, he tried to reproduce that sense of safety and control for Haymitch. 

“Lift yourself up onto your back,” he said. “And hollow out your spine. Spread out your arms… I’m going to be holding you upright for now. Here …” he said, placing his palm flat above Haymitch’s solar plexus, tickled by feeling the thick hair on his chest underneath his fingers. “That’s where you have to lift yourself above water to stay afloat. And breathe. Always focus on your breath. You can’t actually panic if you breathe into your belly evenly.” 

A moment later, he had Haymitch floating, one careful hand flat in the hollow of his back from underneath, making sure it really felt like he was supporting him, not like his hand could vanish. He was standing closely to Haymitch again, all that skin spread out in front of him. Nobody he’d slept with had hair on his chest either. Then he looked at the other man’s face, the black curls floating around him in the water and his focused expression, slight frown on his forehead, eyes turned to the sky. 

He listened to Haymitch breathing in and out measuredly, adjusting his own breath to him until their chests were rising and falling in tandem. The body underneath his hand was much too tense for comfort again, tackling this new thing, but following his orders to the letter – perfectly still. 

Nobody had ever seen Haymitch Abernathy like that, Finnick thought, although all the world thought it had seen everything there was to know about him in his Games. And nobody had ever held him up like that. Nobody else had ever even gotten close enough to think to ask for permission. 

He’d planned on letting go after a moment, but then, he couldn’t make himself. Instead, he loosened his grip after a soft, whispered warning until it was just his fingers brushing across Haymitch’s spine, the faintest anchor hopefully conveying that Haymitch was doing it himself now, but he wasn’t doing it alone.

It awoke a weird pull inside of him that said he wanted to move in again and touch more like before. It just, overall, was hard to even look away, making the world tremble a little. 

Then Haymitch lost his balance, reeling, and Finnick’s hand slid between his shoulder blades, instinctually pushing him into a standing position when he splashed back into the water abruptly. 

“That was great,” Finnick informed him, strangely out of breath. “You’re doing great.”

Combing the wet hair out of his face, Haymitch was having a hard time hiding the faint expression of satisfaction on his face. 

“Thanks, Miss Calina,” he said scathingly and Finnick snorted a laugh, somehow pleased that Haymitch even remembered who his Games teacher had been. 

“Calina taught me to fight with the trident,” he said. “My dad taught me to swim.

“And Mags taught me everything else.”

“I’m crushed,” Haymitch said, brushing more thick strands of hair out of his eyes. They became considerably longer when they didn’t curl, touching his shoulders. “I thought I’d taught you at least how to spend a whole Games smashed.”

“You’ve taught me better things than that,” Finnick softly said, remembering the mess that had been this year’s Wintermas. Again, he noticed how close he was standing to Haymitch in the cold water; again, a part of him wanted to lean in, and since Haymitch wasn’t shaking him off, he compromised by not stepping away, not quite ready to question the impulse. “The Games aren’t everything that matters.”

“Yeah, looking at you, what matters most is apparently swimming in a freezing lake in spring.” Haymitch smirked, apparently trying to diffuse the compliment without having to retreat entirely. He didn’t move away, either, and he didn’t hurry with his nod across the lake. “Lesson’s finished for today. You go and do some more of that thing where you’re a dolphin mutt. Might be a while before it gets this warm again. Or before we’ve stopped sneezing from the colds we’re catching right now,” he added good-naturedly. 

Finnick grinned, feeling happiness spreading throughout him and using its momentum to spin into a chest stroke, hearing Haymitch complain loudly behind him when water had probably splashed onto his face. Just for the fuck of it, he adopted a dolphin kick once he was off, though Haymitch would neither see him do it underwater nor know what it was called. 

Spinning onto his back and looking towards where he’d come from, he saw Haymitch carefully, with measured motions retreating towards a slope of rock growing out of the water a little closer to the shore, holding onto it while he got comfortable to observe Finnick. Finnick couldn’t decide what he liked more about that – that Haymitch didn’t take the first opportunity to escape from the lake although it really was icy if they didn’t move, or that he was keeping an eye on Finnick. 

Finnick thought that this had to be what it felt like to be a normal person with a normal life, a man who made his own decisions and who commanded his own life. A man who had people who loved him waiting back ashore. People who knew who he was and still chose to wait, close to him even. 

He’d always have speculated that that kind of realization would feel empowering, but now he was surprised to discover that mostly, it made him feel adrift and free. 

For his last lap back to Haymitch, he dove under and cut through the cold underwater vortexes of the lake before he breached the surface again, smirking at Haymitch just few yards in front of him. He was perched on a rock ledge in the water, Finnick saw, precariously, holding himself in place with both hands. He was looking like his heavy strong self that Finnick had hoped all autumn and winter would eventually reemerge, except very wet and very cold. 

“You’re bizarre, you know that?” he called out to Finnick, smirking at him when he picked up the last threat of their conversation. “Aberration of a victor of some sort.”

“What’s wrong with enjoying ourselves for a change?” Finnick shot back, spreading his arms. 

“The complete lack of booze while we do so, for example,” Haymitch replied and Finnick was in motion again, covering the last of the distance before he was directly in front of Haymitch, refusing to acknowledge how maybe that was a little too close for two friends. 

“You don’t really mean that,” he said, not having to shout anymore. 

Haymitch looked him over, still holding onto his rock. “Yeah, I don’t.”

His eyes were caught by something on the height of Finnick’s Adam’s apple before they moved higher, and Finnick remembered how he’d seen Haymitch look at him like that before, in that lingering way that he was trying to hide. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Finnick had closed the distance between them and propped his feet on the ledges left and right of Haymitch, holding on to the rock under the water with his feet and above by hand, as close as it got to the other man without touching, surrounding him. Finnick hovered, holding himself still. You did that with another victor, you ran the risk of being attacked and pushed away just out of reflex, if nothing else. 

“Now what would this be about, Odair?” Haymitch said, leaning back against the rock, in a cautious way, but making no move to free himself. After that, he held himself still – tense, but in a good way, in a very aware way. 

Finnick wasn’t a stranger to people reacting to his body, sometimes even to the person people in the Capitol had decided he was, and he could feel that pull emanating from Haymitch now. Unlike in the Capitol though, it set a flock of butterflies free in Finnick’s belly, so abruptly that it almost hurt. Haymitch was different. Haymitch almost knew who Finnick was. 

“I want… I don’t…” His mouth was too dry to form the words, and all his brain seemed weirdly out of order now that he was trying to say... he wasn’t even sure what. He just clung to that feeling of liberty. “Can I…”

“Shit,” Haymitch muttered, but his eyes were on Finnick’s mouth, and Finnick was leaning in before he could stop himself, suddenly feeling Haymitch’s lips under his. They were fuller than Finnick’s, weirdly soft compared to the harsh scratch of his chin. Something inside of him gave when Haymitch’s mouth fell open under the pressure of his lips with a startled little grunt – compliant in an unexpected way. 

They were both freezing, Haymitch had to be freezing from the way his cheeks were feeling against Finnick’s, but Finnick forgot all about the cold; he didn’t even move in to stay warmer. They weren’t touching at all apart from kissing, and Finnick instinctively stayed away, frozen in place because this, including this freedom of not having to touch at _all_ , was _amazing_. 

Haymitch’s hand slid on his thigh, holding him in place tightly, and Finnick flinched, letting go of Haymitch’s lips in a startled way. His mind wasn’t working properly anymore. 

“Sorry,” Haymitch muttered against his throat, his hands both gone, breathing out harshly. Finnick could feel how he was holding still, an unspoken offer to Finnick to just do it the way he wanted – needed – that it was okay for him to make that call. So Finnick leaned in again.

They didn’t even have to touch if they – if Finnick – didn’t want to, but Finnick – licking across Haymitch’s lip by pure instinct and feeling him shudder – was terrifyingly hard despite that, despite the cold, just from knowing he could lean in whenever he wanted and Haymitch would be there. 

It was nothing - _nothing_ \- like fighting in the arena. 

It was nothing like in his dreams. 

A shudder ran down his spine when he realized how different everything he felt right now was from the things he’d done before. When they finally let go, they were both breathing hard and they’d somehow upset the water; it was splashing all around them. Haymitch made an aborted, out-of-character small sound when they did. Finnick hung his head, still holding onto the rock, trying to regain his composure and any kind of clarity of mind. 

He felt elated, like more than just the water was holding him up. 

He looked at Haymitch, whose eyes said he couldn’t believe this was happening. Maybe thinking it a little bizarre, even, but, closing his eyes when they returned to the kiss. Either one of them made another sound when their lips met; Finnick wasn’t even sure who it had been. 

Then Haymitch muttered, “Stop,” and tensed all over just a second later, harshly, saying, “Fuck, Odair.” 

They stopped in mid-motion.

Finnick’s eyes snapped to Haymitch’s face, seeing how it was working. 

As if he’d burnt himself, he let go of the rock and floated back into the water on his back, not bothering to search for the ground with his feet, before he could even think.

Of course, he immediately assumed this was a trigger reaction, like other victors had them, that he’d done something by accident, before he even could recall that Haymitch claimed he didn’t have those, that that was probably a bullshit lie. 

Haymitch, anyway, was looking anywhere but Finnick, anger at himself written on his face in a helpless way, definitely anger about what had just happened between them. 

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered more to himself than to Finnick before Finnick could even consider acting on his need to touch him again, from seeing him struggle with whatever was happening. 

Haymitch was faintly swearing under his breath about the water and the cold, arranging his body – awkward in the water – to get off his ledge and get his feet back on the ground and very carefully, determinedly make his way to the shore. 

Finnick looked after him, his mind reeling from so many impressions at once. 

It occurred to him that Haymitch and he had just kissed. 

Haymitch and he had kissed, and it had been nothing like kissing any of his clients. He hadn’t once spared a thought on technique. No careful eye had been kept on whether the body underneath his was having the wrong kind of reaction, or if his own had. None of it had been scripted.

That realization strangely knocked him off balance, water tilting around him, until another moment later, he was able to remind himself that it didn’t matter, he couldn’t fall in here.

Only once Haymitch had almost reached the shore did he think to kick off and follow him out, catching up and wading out to Haymitch viciously toweling off his hair, an angry expression on his face and not even once looking at Finnick. 

Finnick’s cheeks were suddenly feeling hot. He was desperately trying to focus on how they both were shaking now that they were dripping wet; the sun having retreated behind a cloud for a stretch, goose bumps covering both of them. 

A moment later, they were saying things to each other, things that seemingly just came out of their mouths, like, “Put on that sweater, you look like you’re fucking freezing” and “Sun still goes down early, we better get going.” 

“Not a word,” Haymitch growled a warning at him when Finnick handed him one of the backpacks, lingering when he did so and thinking there had to be something he could say to make this stop. 

The two of them had _kissed_ , and something about it had completely gone wrong despite the way it had felt great.


	14. Chapter 13: A Little Glimpse At Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just bring it on,” Finnick goaded him, as if this was the arena and Haymitch his opponent during Final Battle, trident versus knives._

### Chapter 13: A Little Glimpse At Liberty

They arrived in the district late. The Village was already covered in dark shadows when they entered it, no sign of the housekeepers long since. Muttering awkward goodbyes, they split up in front of their respective houses; Finnick climbed the stairs to his porch feeling as if his head was too light. 

In the corner of his eye across the lawn, the shadow of Haymitch was fiddling with the keys on his own porch clumsily, faintly swearing to himself. It would be dark in his house, Finnick wanted to offer going in there first and turning on the lights for him. He couldn’t help but remember how Johanna had gotten one night after she’d tumbled into a club’s bathroom with a stranger of her choosing, the way that had backfired for her in a scary way, and was suddenly seriously worried all over again that he’d thrown Haymitch into some weird kind of episode or flashback. It couldn’t be true when Haymitch said he didn’t have those.

But when he drew a breath to speak, staring at his own door like an idiot, nothing came out. 

There was a moment when there wasn’t any sound, not even of Haymitch’s keys. 

Then Haymitch’s voice rang through the night, muffled. “’s gonna be fine, Odair. Go to bed.” Finnick knew he meant, _Let’s say this never happened. Let’s act like nothing’s changed_. But it _had_ and those short words gave him a pang as if some tribute had shot an arrow right through his diaphragm; it almost surprised him when he didn’t taste blood. 

Haymitch’s door fell shut too loudly and Finnick just stood there on his porch, feeling like there was nowhere he could want to go.

* * *

It was so obvious that he wouldn’t get an ounce of sleep that night that he didn’t even try. He just kept haunting his house, in turns settling in on his bed, leaning upright against the headboard completely unable to get any rest, or on his living room couch, watching the light fall through the windows from across the lawn, where Haymitch’s shadow sometimes trudged from room to room. He tried reading, writing letters, but failed miserably. 

He waited for that certainty to settle in that there was something disgusting about him, the way it often did after seeing a client, but if it came, it was only the faintest trace, the dread of what he should be feeling more than the actual sensation. 

Finnick knew he’d done an unforgivable thing with that kiss because all of Haymitch’s reaction had let him know that he had, because of their long, awkward, silent hike back to their homes that said he’d fucked up good. Haymitch thought this had been an unbelievably stupid thing to do, never mind he’d been just as eager for it as Finnick –Finnick was in the best position to know that what your body did wasn’t always what your mind wanted you to. But Finnick just couldn’t make himself _feel_ like it had been the wrong thing to do, still filled with that stark, scary, overwhelming sense of _right_. 

He thought he’d never stop longing to feel like that again. 

It was so late at night that no sounds could be heard from the district anymore at all, when he sank down onto a chair and buried his face in his hands, sick and tired of his mind running in circles and trying to figure it all out. 

Haymitch had _liked_ what they’d done. 

_Finnick_ had liked what they’d done, and it was so much what he wanted that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t known that before. But if he had known, he still wouldn’t have expected that it would feel like _this_.

He just wanted to be _close_ to Haymitch, he wanted to _touch_ him so that Haymitch would make more of those small, involuntary sounds. And he wanted to see that expression on his face again, the one that had said he, inconceivably, wanted more of Finnick. 

The craziest thing was that all the arousal he’d felt during that kiss returned along the memory, persistently, whenever he thought back to what being so close to Haymitch had been like. So he eventually took a page out of Haymitch’s book and took a shower, warming himself up after the day in the water and the hike. He got himself off under the hot spray, having to brace himself and, bizarrely, hearing himself whimper when he came, his cock scarily eager to respond. It felt nothing like sex – like sex as he knew it, at that. 

It struck Finnick, abruptly, that he apparently felt attracted to men. To Haymitch, yes, but that meant, also to men, to broad shoulders and heavy frames and to chest hair, possibly. He’d hardly want for Haymitch to rather be a woman, that would have been ludicrous. Up until now, he’d vaguely have dismissed that whole train of thought; he would have supposed that he probably just felt attracted to everyone. Everyone could get him going, after all. 

It still didn’t once enter his mind that this could be no more than a physical reaction, that he could be wanting anything but a whole relationship from Haymitch. This was, after all, Haymitch, who he’d always put in a special category in his mind. 

There were a million different reasons why such a relationship was a terrible idea, of course. Finnick was aware of all of them. While Snow didn’t usually get involved in victor relations, as long as they happened off camera, they would still make the President angry, daring to be happy during what was supposed to be punishment. Also, Haymitch was a recovering addict and Finnick was a whore, and they were tied together uncomfortably already, for life. 

Then he thought about what Mags would say and knew, without a trace of doubt, that she’d take his face in her hands and tell him they both deserved to be happy. 

And just exploring the possibility of being with Haymitch made something tilt inside of Finnick, taking his breath away. It would make him _happy._

If it just made Haymitch happy, too. 

Clinging to that sense of freedom and choice that he’d felt in the lake, Finnick decided that he wouldn’t act like this had never happened. He didn’t want to act like this wasn’t all he wanted, he didn’t want to use this little leeway of choices in his life to tell more lies. He was resolved about it even before he’d toweled off after his shower.

It was this one amazing thing ready for the taking, if Haymitch wanted it, too, and it would just be their own damn fault – not the Capitol’s or Snow’s – if they didn’t grab it quick.

* * *

Finnick let himself into Haymitch’s house when the sun came up. Insecure about how they stood, he didn’t start breakfast like he might usually have, compromising on brewing some coffee to stop his anxiety. Cup in hand, so much sugar in it that he’d have to factor into his training routine the next day, he settled down at the table, listening for Haymitch moving around on the upper floor. Bedroom to bathroom, shower, bathroom to bedroom. Eventually, his heavy steps rumpled down the stairs, and he appeared in the doorway, drying hair starting to curl around his temples. He looked at Finnick, and Finnick thought he had to be appearing pretty miserable, because there had been resolve behind Haymitch’s eyes. 

Then, there wasn’t anymore. 

“You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?” the other man said, in a tone that suggested he felt guilty about having made that happen. Finnick shrugged, refraining from pointing out how there were tired circles around Haymitch’s eyes. 

Then he looked Finnick over and seemed to realize that the plan of never speaking of it again just wouldn’t fly. 

“Come on up. This ain’t the kind of conversation I’m having in this house.”

Accepting the cup of coffee Finnick pushed across the table for him with a grunt of gratitude, Haymitch waited for him to pick himself up, holding the backdoor open for him on the way out. It was in equal measures a strangely formal and a respectful gesture, filling Finnick in parts with anxiety and warmth. At least their friendship hadn’t gotten damaged. But Haymitch also had made sure not to touch him while he did it.

They trudged across the street towards Swagger’s house, where Haymitch led him to a low window in the back that tilted when Haymitch pushed at it the right way, allowing him to reach inside and open the one next to it fully. 

“No need listening in on a dead man’s life,” he shortly said when Finnick raised his eyebrows at him, his knowledge undoubtedly a side benefit from acquainting with Beetee for so long. Swagger’s house, of course, would also be furnished, unlike the unused ones. 

They climbed in and made their way through the ghostly old-fashioned rooms, dark-wood drawers and empty shelves covered with dust. The layout was the same as their own houses’, though, so they found the kitchen easily, sterile and empty and dusty – somebody had packed up even the cutlery to send back to the Capitol. Haymitch pulled a chair from a table that was identical to the one Finnick had been sitting at in Haymitch’s house, and took a seat, coffee cup immediately forgotten in front of him, waiting for Finnick to follow. 

It struck Finnick that Haymitch hadn’t once refused to talk about his struggle with addiction and insomnia in the vicinity of listening devices, resigned to the Capitol monitoring as he was, but he refused talking about kissing Finnick where outsiders might hear. 

_It meant something to him, too. At least that much. Of course, it did._

_But that might just be all there is._

“Let’s get this going,” Haymitch said, face tightly controlled, and Finnick took a deep breath. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted in a small voice, when no words would come out despite all the thinking he had done. It was too new.

Haymitch harrumphed. “I say we skip the part where you apologize.” He knew him too well. Apologizing for spooking Haymitch, at least, had been pretty high on his list of things to say first, even though he didn’t think it had been a trigger reaction anymore. Just that Haymitch had reconsidered his actions.

When Finnick just offered him an apologetic grimace, Haymitch slumped into himself and clasped his hands together while he considered his next words. 

“Alright, Odair,” he said eventually, each word handpicked. “Listen here. You and me, we’re both adult men. Now what happened, it’s not like we planned it or anything, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re lonely here, I get that, and you’re young, and you’ve got a lot of confusing things going on in your life. And Capitol knows, so do I. So maybe you… _we_ were acting on impulse, alright, so what. Nothing happened, and nothing’s gotta come from it. There ain’t a reason not to just go on the way things used to be. I’m not mad at you. Nothing’s changed.”

Finnick looked at him in mystification. It took a moment until those words started making sense in his head, because that wasn’t what he’d expected, it was completely off the wall. That wasn’t what it had been like. Haymitch saying these things was… it was like when children died on the screen and then Flickerman cheered and talked of scores – just a little bit surreal.

“I don’t want to _forget_ that it happened, Haymitch,” he said, using his first name on purpose – considering that kiss, he thought, bristling, that he was entitled. “I didn’t… it wasn’t because I was _lonely._ I’ve never…” His breath hitched. “I didn’t just want a kiss. I want…. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know that you’d want me. I think… I feel these things for you and I want it to, I want to be with you. I do.”

“Thirteen’s smoking ashes,” Haymitch breathed, a trace of pain in his voice. He didn’t want to be having this conversation, that was obvious. He’d said the things he’d said in the hopes that Finnick would take that easy way out. 

That hurt, so Finnick looked at him with a faint trace of accusation. “I didn’t have a feeling that you were that opposed to the idea yesterday.”

“Ain’t a matter of what I want,” Haymitch immediately said. 

“Yeah, it is,” Finnick replied, recollecting his arguments. “It’s about what you and I want. I want to kiss you again, a lot. I want to, I want to try being with you in that way, I want to give that a shot. If you don’t, okay, I mean…” He tried to calm himself. “I mean, I’ll deal. But it isn’t because I’m lonely.” He wet his lips before he admitted, hesitantly, “This is the first time I’ve wanted anything like this in my whole life. And I’d never even known what it was that I’d want. Now, I want… I suddenly want so many things.” 

Imagining what it should feel like, being with people because he’d decided he wanted to be with them, had become harder every year. Just two years ago when he’d mentored for the first time, during that bad summer when everything had felt impossible, he’d threatened to cry every time he managed to picture it, and he’d tried making himself stop. He hadn’t wanted to think about that anymore. It was a stupid weakness of his, how he kept trying to imagine things, and he’d been relieved when he’d managed to stop. 

That had been then.

But Haymitch was shaking his head, refusing to listen. “You’re telling yourself that. It’s just the two of us here. It’s not like you’re having a choice, there isn’t anybody else…”

“Was that what it felt like when you fell in love with Lyra? Like you had to?” Finnick asked, and just from the way Haymitch’s face darkened immediately, he knew that it hadn’t.

“Just means I know what I’m talking about, now doesn’t it?” Haymitch very carefully enunciated.

“Well, _she_ didn’t feel like she only had one option, or she would have gone for it the second you proposed it.”

This time, Haymitch almost growled. “This _definitely_ isn’t about Lyra, _Finnick_.”

“What is this about then?” Finnick asked, more nervous by the minute, so nervous that it verged on anger. A small voice in his head kept insisting that Haymitch hadn’t yet so much as _implied_ that he wouldn’t want Finnick back. But Finnick needed him to say that, he needed him to make a statement about it either way, either say yes or squelch that stupid hope. Everybody wanted Finnick, but it was so hard to believe that anybody would want _Finnick._ “Is it so hard to believe that I could feel attracted to you? You’re one of the best people I know. You’re amazing and strong…”

“This is getting ridiculous,” Haymitch announced and got up from his chair. 

Then he moved to stand at the dusty, empty kitchen counter, leaning onto it hard with tense shoulders, presenting his back to Finnick, like he’d done before when things got hard to bear. 

“You could at least look at me,” Finnick said softly, then bit his lip. 

But Haymitch turned around again immediately, hands grasping the counter on both sides with tense muscles, obeying his plea before he could have consciously thought it through – unable to not give what Finnick had asked. 

He spoke on vehemently, not allowing Finnick to add anything more on the matter of Haymitch Abernathy’s desirability.

“If you think…” He stopped himself and started anew, strained. “Odair. Finnick. This isn’t… You just got confused, alright? I know what you’re going through with what Snow makes you do in the Capitol, trust me. Acted like I didn’t really, I know, but it happened to me, too, for a stretch. I know what that’s like. There’s a lot you’re going through, a lot of crazy shit that you can’t keep apart anymore, but this isn’t the answer you’re looking for. This isn’t the way to some private rebellion, if that’s what you think. I can’t go and help you make yourself even unhappier, you can’t ask that of me. What with how your family is relying on me now, I’m already playing a big enough part in that as is.” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Finnick said before he could stop himself, a mix of a little exasperation and a strong edge of hurt. 

It looked like Haymitch had trouble forming the words, his jaw too stiff to get them out. “This only is what you _think_ you want, Finnick.”

“Why? How do you know that?” Finnick demanded. Too anxious to sit, he got up himself, taking two steps away from the table just to freeze in the middle of the empty kitchen when he didn’t know where he even was going with that – if he wanted to get closer to Haymitch or the opposite, seek safety from a distance – crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest and turning to look at Haymitch. “You think I’m that big a Capitol slut that I don’t know the difference anymore? That I’ll just do it with anybody like some sort of default, because I _like_ it so much? Is that what you think?”

Haymitch had physically flinched. “’Course not. Shit. Don’t call yourself that, fuck.” A beat. “I think… I think you’ve probably got some sense of obligation to keep me going, or something like that. I don’t _know_ , fuck.”

“So my only way of keeping you healthy is talking you into fucking me, since I’ve proven so incapable of doing it just as your friend?” If Finnick’s arms weren’t locked in the position he’d put them, tight around his chest, he thought he might have actually thrown them in the air, or punched something, which he’d never wanted to do before outside the arena. “Cut me _some_ slack here.” His voice could have sliced bread. “I’m not talking about getting off. I’m fucking _scared_ of…” His breath hitched, but he barged on through. “I’m not even sure about that part, I think, but that’s a shitty reason to stop wanting things.”

Haymitch’s whole body tensed further against the counter, making it clear how much he hated conceding the point. He thought too well of Finnick not to, though, Finnick knew that. It would never even occur to Haymitch to assume something bad about him, to look at him like the slut he’d become. That was one of the reasons Finnick felt so damn attracted to him, probably, because he was addicted to the version of himself that Haymitch had built in his head. He wanted to believe that there was a little truth in it.

“You know what,” Finnick said restlessly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just because it’s only the two of us living here. Maybe if we had a lot of other people here every day, people who’ll talk to us, I wouldn’t spend so much time with you and I wouldn’t feel for you the way I do. But if that’s true, I don’t even _care_ ,” he managed. “It makes me feel _happy,_ I don’t _care_ why. 

“I _want_ to keep feeling like this,” he added, helplessly. “Please tell me if you’re just trying to say that you’re not… you’re not interested in me that way.” His voice broke. Even to his ears, the line sounded like something out of a bad novel, terrible overused, and it shocked him how much it still felt like it was cracking him open. “I’d understand. It’s not like I’d want me.” 

“Oh for the love…” Haymitch managed, then hit the counter with one angry balled fist as if casting for a way of making something inside of him stop. 

Finnick pressed his lips together, looking at him. 

“Listen, Finnick,” Haymitch managed and paused, visibly fighting for words. 

“Just bring it on,” Finnick goaded him, as if this was the arena and Haymitch his opponent during Final Battle, trident versus knives. 

Haymitch swore again. 

“You’re a regular font of stupidity sometimes, you know that?” 

Finnick chuckled darkly, because that really, really wasn’t enough. 

“I’m a waste, okay, Odair?” Haymitch said it like there was no room for arguments on that front at least. “I’m an addict. I’ll always be an addict. I can’t sleep without a fucking bed lamp, and I mean, _look_ at me for just a fucking second here. You deserve somebody better than that, at the very least somebody your _age_. It’s just a matter of time until I do something unbelievably idiotic again and then I’ll be gone, and hopefully it’ll just be me and a couple more tributes who’ll be fucked.”

“Like I would _let_ you! I’m not going anywhere, that’s not going to happen!” Now Finnick was in motion after all, pushing his hair out of his forehead and casting around the kitchen, although those were just the empty shelves of a dead man, who, unlike them, couldn’t change his miserable life anymore. 

Maybe Swagger March had killed himself when everything became too hard to bear, but Finnick refused to believe that the two of them would ever be anything like that. He wouldn’t allow Haymitch to believe it, and for that to happen, he also couldn’t let himself.

“Alright, you’re an addict,” he agreed, forcing a measured tone of voice. “And I’m a whore. And who gives a fuck how we deal. You understand what my life is like. All the other people don’t. I want you, not somebody else, I want you to want me back.” 

Breathing hard, he added to the side, “Not that you’d tell me if you did.”

“I want you so much I can’t fucking breathe, Odair,” Haymitch ground out. 

His mouth dried out. 

Everything around him jerked once, abruptly, then settled back into a slightly different position that it had been in before. 

Something inside Finnick’s chest relaxed, as if it had just become so much easier to breathe, but it also viciously shook up his balance.

Having something he wanted right in front of him, something that he could have, getting that thing too – it was too overwhelming to grasp. Not some idealized fairytale idea of true love from a novel or fantasy, some vague thing, but this particular man in front of him, exactly the way he was, grumpy sarcasm and all. 

Finnick slumped down on his chair at the kitchen table, so hard that its joints creaked ominously under his weight, scratching across the floor.

On the other side of the room, Haymitch was sitting down on his own chair again, gingerly, looking lost, the fight draining out of both of them now that they’d… that they’d both of them won, Finnick supposed. 

Or he hoped so, anyway. 

He tried to think. 

He hadn’t been very good at that since yesterday.

“Not really sure where to go from here,” he admitted, rubbing his face and laughing at himself just a little bit. 

“Oh for all that’s mighty in the district,” muttered Haymitch at the same time. 

Then he looked up at Finnick. “You just keep doing these things to me.” It sounded apologetic and drained.

Finnick snorted. “Like I’m having a master plan.” 

They smirked at each other weakly, bonding over how bizarre all of this really was, including them sitting here in Swagger’s kitchen, discussing starting… something between them like some theoretical thing.

“What does it feel like?” Finnick added, almost curious, because he couldn’t decide for himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking about.

“Scary as fuck,” Haymitch replied promptly. Finnick snorted a laugh in agreement.

There still was that slight string of anxiety inside of him that could as well have been caused by the night without sleep, but Finnick had a feeling that it hadn’t been, and that it wouldn’t go anywhere soon. It wasn’t a kind of anxiety that should be there, but he also thought that it would just forever stay with him, that he’d always be nervous about wanting things, getting them, waiting for the catch. He thought he could handle it, though. He wanted to handle it, if that was the price he had to pay for all those… for those _good_ things. 

“I haven’t really thought about the mechanics,” Finnick said. He hadn’t dared, just had kept picturing that kiss, like a music player with a slack joint, stuck in a loop. “I think I’m a little messed up.” He did all kinds of things with all kinds of people all the time; it wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ but maybe he didn’t _want_ to do all of them and thinking about it from that angle, it left him a little confused. What did he _want_? How did he want to… bend, where to put his hands, where did he want Haymitch to put his hands? Shouldn’t he know these things? Normal people knew these things. Thinking about it just unsettled him more. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how… what’s it like for you, what do you want?”

“It ain’t the problem what I want,” Haymitch categorically said. 

Finnick threw him a look, disbelieving about how they were covering that again.

“Alright, alright.” Haymitch threw up his hands in defense. “Red roses and fluffy pillows for the both of us it is.”

Finnick snorted another laugh. 

“You’ll tell me if I do anything you don’t… anything, even if it’s small…” he started saying, because he thought maybe that scared him the most, suddenly, doing… _things_ … with Haymitch who might decide to just hide it if something happened that he didn’t like, who might get spooked like before out of the blue. He didn’t want to hurt Haymitch, but Haymitch had a tendency to hide. And Finnick didn’t want this to be like with a client.

Still, Haymitch nodded. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “You do that, too.”

“Can I kiss you again?” Finnick asked, experimentally. 

It said a million things that Haymitch didn’t have a quip for that one at hand, just saying, “Yeah.”

Nervous in almost exactly the same way he’d felt when he was fourteen and sneaked into the bank brush with Caira Mallony without a clue what would happen – and he’d never felt that particular way with any client at all – Finnick got up and walked around the table, still not entirely sure about how it would go, where to put his hands, how it would _go_. 

“Okay if you stay put?” he heard himself say when Haymitch started getting up, so Haymitch sank back down onto the chair, glancing up at him. 

“Yeah,” he said again, quietly. “Yeah, alright, that works.”

Grabbing the back of the chair with one hand and propping himself up against the table top with the other, Finnick bent down so that he hovered over Haymitch, not quite expecting that he’d want to bolt but relieved to have the option, just, that physical freedom of movement. It shouldn’t work for Haymitch on the opposite end, crowded like that, and Finnick couldn’t quite wrap his mind around that they’d been fine like that once before, but Haymitch released a breath when they kissed, a good kind of breath, just a small one. His lips again felt softer than expected. His hair was still wet.

It was different this time, more halting and less desperate but no less wonderful. It had the possibility of kissing again sprawling out in front of them. Finnick closed his eyes, neither letting go of the chair nor edging away. It was easier to focus on Haymitch like that, what he tasted like and felt like, traces of coffee, uniquely him. He could feel tension seeping out of Haymitch in abrupt little spurts, not all of it but a noticeable bit, opening his mouth to Finnick and allowing him in, tongues brushing against each other. 

He still couldn’t believe how great this felt and how hard he got from it, too, just from this, even though he couldn’t remember having done something that shy and halting even before his Games, in the bank brush of Four. 

He could have gone on like this without thinking any further and never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for my current delays, folks. While I had been aiming for one chapter a week, that plan was scratched when my dog got sick in this all-consuming way where you don't get any sleep anymore. Now that the puppy is more or less fine and I'm getting to sleep through the night again, I'll try for two chapters a month and we'll see how it goes.


	15. Chapter 14: Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two weeks later, he was still feeling elated, like the world had taken a respectful step back and conceded to just leave him be._

### Chapter 14: Touch

Two weeks later, he was still feeling elated, like the world had taken a respectful step back and conceded to just leave him be. 

Finnick recognized the feeling, intellectually. He’d seen first love and all the fluttering, rose-colored excitement of it playing out in Capitol movies, read about it in novels, even in the ones from before the Dark Days – the Four black market was full of them, easier to obtain than most other kinds of stories. He’d read about what it was supposed to feel like, getting to be with somebody you liked, what it supposedly did to people’s insides. Then he’d shaken his head about the squishy nonsense and forgotten about it. 

He’d assumed that the books embellished on the feelings, and romance was meant for other people, anyway. 

He hadn’t expected that he’d be feeling so _good._

He hadn’t expected that it would put Haymitch in such a good, relaxed mood, either – whenever he forgot to worry about things – that Finnick being with him would. It seemed almost out of character at times, except for how Finnick had just never before _seen_ him with a good reason to be happy. 

There was kissing and some touching between them now, and Haymitch especially was loath to talk about it too much but he still had yet to stop Finnick from doing anything with him. It continued to make Finnick uncomfortable to leave any decisions about how they touched each other to Haymitch; it reminded him too much of how his body was for everyone to use. 

“Watch out,” he would mutter before stepping up behind Haymitch, peeling potatoes at the kitchen counter, because it was a dumb idea to approach any victor, and especially Haymitch, from behind while that victor was holding a knife. 

Now, Haymitch put the hand holding it down and held very still when Finnick ran his hands down his arms, kissing the back of his neck. 

He could feel the tension gradually seeping out of Haymitch when he did that, guarded at first, but plain unable to resist the sensation. Feeling him shudder and lean towards him in an involuntary way that flustered him every time he noticed he’d done it, Finnick had resolved that he’d never stop wanting to touch Haymitch, if that was what it did to him. He didn’t need to tell Finnick that nobody had touched him like that for a long time. Finnick felt awed that he was the one who had been allowed. It was no small thing for Haymitch to permit. 

It also gave all the control to Finnick, because Haymitch purposefully didn’t move, until Finnick asked him, with a questioning sound, to turn around. Then he did, a small grunt escaping him when they kissed, and he fully let go of the knife, which clattered onto the counter. 

It was the greatest thing. Considering that first bumbling attempt in the lake when Haymitch had reached out to him and gripped Finnick’s thigh almost too hard, the fact that Haymitch was letting him do it this way clearly was a concession, not inclination. Haymitch, after all, was an authoritative person by nature, who tended to dominate a room. And while that responsibility scared Finnick a little, it also felt exhilarating, a little like swimming, maybe really like wielding his trident. He’d started spending ridiculous amounts of time each day trying to figure out how to make Haymitch feel good in new small ways, how to touch or kiss him, how to make himself feel good by doing that. 

It was a firmly above-beltline activity. They didn’t venture any further than that.

Summer bloomed early after that short winter, little blue and yellow flowers covering the Meadow. But they started escaping from the sight of the starved, desperate district population two or three times a week now to hike to the lake, towels and food in their bags. None of the Peacekeepers cared; one night, Finnick noticed two of them, the boyish lieutenant with the red hair and a captain, deliberately looking the other way when they returned home, from the rocky area behind the Village where there only were mining facilities and a weakened spot in the fence big enough for grown men. 

Haymitch had progressed to short laps in the lake, eventually venturing into deeper water, too, but he seemed to be just as content watching Finnick while he exerted himself, losing himself in the exercise. Finnick had tried animating him to spar with him, desperate for a partner as he was, but Haymitch had just laughed in his face. That hadn’t changed. 

They didn’t cuddle, exactly, but Haymitch would still let him lean over when they sat in the sun together after a swim, allowing Finnick to explore his frame with his fingers, running them down his bare arms and across the expanse of his belly. 

“Why'd you keep doing that?” Haymitch asked once, leaning back onto his elbows, watching Finnick's hand trailing down his sternum, playing with the hair on his chest.

“What? The people I do it with are always shaved,” Finnick replied. “It's interesting. I mean, everybody's got hair on his chest. You'd think they have a problem with people overall, like they don’t want them to be the way they really are. Like, I dunno, they want us to be something else.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Haymitch said. “Not what I meant.” His breath hitched when Finnick's hand slid lower, and Finnick paused with a questioning look. But no, that had been a good spot. Still, the intensity with which Haymitch often reacted to his proximity made him think, touch seemed to be too good to bear for Haymitch, sometimes, something to get used step by step. So maybe it was a good and a bad spot at once. “Just saying,” Haymitch continued now. “You're aware most people would like for all that to not be there.” So he was speaking about his beer belly, then, as Finnick had reached a spot underneath his ribs.

Finnick shrugged. “Most people and me tend to disagree.” Most people wanted to fuck _him_ , never mind cheer for dying children at the Hunger Games, so quite obviously, most people’s opinion was mad.

“Well if you think the way I look is just an expression of my unhappiness, or whatever else esoteric crap you've been fed, you're in for a surprise. That fat ain’t gonna go away. You don't change shape so easily anymore at my age...”

“You've still got that thing in your head where you think you aren't good enough for me,” Finnick interrupted him, and Haymitch abruptly shut up. 

Watching Finnick exploring his torso, he changed gears.

“Well yeah,” he said, like it was obvious.

Finnick leaned closer to press some small kisses on his chest, pleased by how it pressed his own torso up against Haymitch's naked arm, how Haymitch automatically leaned in.

“I think you're eventually gonna figure out that this isn't for you,” he heard Haymitch’s voice, unsteady from the distraction, muffled against the top of his head. “And that's fine, you know. You're young. You'll find a nice guy or a nice girl, and you'll realize that you can have the same thing we're doing right now except with someone who isn't an old, overweight drunk who’s gotten all his tributes killed.”

“I'm forever amazed at the crap that sometimes comes out of your mouth.”

“Cute, but snappy commentary isn't gonna change the facts.”

“Is there anything at all that I can say to make you stop thinking like that?”

“Nah,” Haymitch said. “I'm just collecting the spoils of your delusion here and waiting for the day when I can say I told you so.” He vaguely nodded at Finnick's hand. “Ain't like I gotta do a lot of work.”

“If you're not okay letting me...” Finnick immediately said, retreating, and Haymitch rolled his eyes.

“You know that's not how I meant it.”

“Right,” Finnick said with a grimace.

He looked down on his own hand, putting it in place again and spreading his fingers until it reached from the thinning line of hair above Haymitch's belly button almost exactly halfway across his belly. Then moved it, along Haymitch's lower ribs, all the way down until it reached the drying waistband of the pants he used as swimming trunks, the wet material outlining his crotch. Felt for how warm Haymitch felt from the sun and how steady, and how his breath stuttered at that in a way that Finnick could feel, this trembling thing, deep inside under his palm.

“I wish,” Finnick started saying, and paused. “I wish you'd let me tell you how I feel about you,” he said, because Haymitch didn't. He just got sarcastic when Finnick tried. Not that he’d offered serenading Finnick either, but that was probably because he sensed that one too many people had already done that before him. “I like touching you. I love it, I could do it all day. I mean, I _do_ it all day, obviously,” he added, and Haymitch snorted a laugh. Finnick's lips twitched, too. “I think you're amazing,” he said. “And really hot, seriously. Home in Four, there were a lot of people who I love but I just wanted to be gone. I didn't want them to look at me anymore. Now I'm here, with you, and I want to be here with you _more_ than I want to be somewhere else. You’re strong and smart, you probably don’t know how smart.

“I think about touching you at night,” he quietly said. “I think about you when I, well. When I, in the shower. I’ve never much done that about anybody else, not like this. It’s never been like this." His voice died. These were things he’d never have admitted, if it weren’t to convince Haymitch.

“But you don’t believe any of that,” he added, pressing his lips against Haymitch’s shoulder.

Haymitch was quiet for a moment. “I want to, if it helps,” he said, clearing his voice when those words came out too quiet. His tone said that it was similar for him – his desire for it to be true was bigger than his need to protect himself from what he thought was the inevitable. 

So maybe it was a matter of time. Finnick tried thinking like Mags, reminding himself how fortunate that was, because time was what they had most of.

Finnick liked to believe that it wasn’t just the physical exercise in the lake and from the hikes, but also his company – and maybe the trust that they had built between the two of them – that helped Haymitch sleep reasonably well in those weeks. Otherwise, his insomnia might have returned with sudden full force much earlier than June. 

“Is it us?” Finnick asked hesitantly one morning, the third day in a row that Haymitch had trudged down the stairs obviously sleep-deprived, rubbing his eyes over breakfast and clutching his coffee too shakily. He hadn’t said anything about it, so Finnick had been unsure if he wasn’t maybe supposed to ignore it. “What we’re doing… is that why? Should we go slower?” Though he wasn’t sure how. He was as new to relationships that lasted longer than three weeks as Haymitch and didn’t know how to proceed.

Finnick had put down his knife, observing the light reflecting from it, because despite everything, he was hit by an abrupt pang of doubt, of how maybe he was doing something wrong. He was so used to double-checking what his partners wanted.

Now Haymitch glanced up from his plate, in the corner of his eye, then hesitated likewise, putting down his fork as if the eggs just had stopped tasting like eggs. 

“Games getting close,” he said. “Just another month until it’s Reaping Day again.”

Finnick nodded, a part of him relieved, another part tensing up. There were all the obvious reasons for Haymitch – for both of them – to dread the Games, and this time would be particularly hard. It would be the first time Haymitch went back there since his breakdown. All the cameras would be on him. It would test his ability to stay sober like nothing had before. 

“Should I…” he started searching for the words, but Haymitch had already nodded, resigned, admitting defeat.

“Yeah,” he said, pushing away the plate as if he’d grown tired of pretending. “Might as well.”

So Finnick didn’t leave for the night that day like he usually would have, but stayed behind and got ready for sleep at Haymitch’s place. But when he settled into his armchair, Haymitch muttered, “Might as well, if you want,” and pointed at the empty side of his bed. 

Finnick crawled in next to him, trying to get comfortable on a stiff, old pillow, adorned with patterns twenty years out of fashion. Haymitch’s mattress felt too soft. There was a whole inch between them, but Finnick could still reconstruct the outline of Haymitch’s body from the way the sheet curved between them, could feel his body heat – close enough and comforting despite all that.

Haymitch twisted and turned while he waited for the sleeping pill to take effect, until Finnick remembered to reach out and put his hand on his upper arm, holding on tight. Haymitch settled in after that, used to that physical anchor, like a startle trigger but the other way around. 

Just before he could fall asleep, it struck Finnick that sleeping comfortably and relaxing into the sheets meant he would eventually wake up from one of those dreams. 

He’d wake up from a dream in this brightly lit room and Haymitch would be there, light sleeper that he was even when he took pills, he’d quickly figure out what it had been about, and then what?

“Everything alright?” Haymitch asked, and Finnick noticed his hand had stiffened, gripping Haymitch for real as if Haymitch was the anchor and Finnick was the one who might drown. 

“Just thinking,” he said after a beat. “I’m fine.” 

None of this would last, he thought, suddenly so unhappy that he felt like crying; all his resolve about the two of them vanished. Haymitch was right, it wouldn’t last, but different from how he thought. He only _thought_ he knew Finnick. He’d find out. Like he’d so optimistically told Haymitch at the lake, Finnick had come to Twelve so that the people he cared about wouldn’t learn his secrets, but he hadn’t expected to find a new person like that here. He’d thought it would just be Haymitch, who wouldn’t care, and now Haymitch did, and it was true what Finnick had said – Haymitch was wickedly smart, good at reading Finnick in a terrifying way. It was starting all over again.

_Just enjoy it while it lasts. This is the best you’ll ever get to feel._

That was cold comfort, though. At least, in the end, his sleep was restless, no room for dirty dreams.

* * *

Finnick returned from his workout one evening to find Gale Hawthorne sitting on his porch with his game bag lying next to him, blatantly displaying his crime here in the Village, where Peacekeepers knew not to patrol. 

“Thought I’d wait,” the boy – young man now, almost – told him, pointing at the strawberries and apricots peeking out of the bag. “Got some new things on sale today that I thought you might enjoy.” 

Then he nodded at the well-lit house across the lawn. “ _He_ wouldn’t open the door when I knocked.”

“ _He_ doesn’t like talking to people who take general issue with his existence,” Finnick replied and sat down next to Gale, propping his spears against the railing. 

He gestured towards the boy to hand him the strawberries, picking one and letting the sweet juice of it run over his tongue before he offered them to Gale. 

“What? I’m paying for them,” he said and Gale gave him a frown, then still took one. People born in Twelve never refused food.

Finnick nibbled at another, looking at the sky across the buildings above. It was nice out, the setting sun coloring the sky in vivid purples and reds, the warmth sticking around until sunset. The Village was quiet, like always, and right now, that felt nice. Three weeks from now, they would return to the Capitol and see at least one of their children off to die, but now, he was sitting here and eating strawberries with Gale Hawthorne and it was just nice. 

Gale was watching him out of the corner of his eye, Finnick noticed, the way he was licking strawberry juice off his fingers. 

“What?” Finnick said and stopped. 

Gale hesitated for a moment. 

“Do you look forward to it?” he eventually asked. “Going back to the Capitol for the Games.”

“Yes, that fills me with ecstasy every time,” Finnick deadpanned.

The boy frowned, as if he’d expected something else. 

“Sure looks like it on the television,” he muttered, then picked another fruit. 

Too lazy to feel offended, Finnick contemplated that for a moment, what Gale must think of him and Haymitch, what all the district thought of them. Collaborators. Sluts. Child molesters – that last one would always anger him most. They were all happy to see only what was right in front of them the way it had been filmed, and it was hard to see a difference between that and the Capitol crowds during the Hunger Games. 

Finnick wanted to believe that it meant everything would be different if all these people, Capitol and districts both, were just told the truth. He didn’t want to think that human beings just were like that.

As long as Gale wasn’t reaped and didn’t win, the boy would never know the truth. But despite how he’d do wonders for their marketing, Finnick had started hoping that it wouldn’t happen to him. Gale had turned seventeen and had only two more Reapings to survive.

Right now, he was glancing at Finnick again, a slight frown still on his face. “Is it true what you said on the television, that you want things to change for Twelve in the Games?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“How would you do it, though?” Gale said. “There’s nothing that can be done.”

Since this was Gale, Finnick knew he didn’t want an empty reassurance, but hard facts; he wanted to know the actual plan. 

Finnick wondered why. 

He gathered his thoughts before he replied, silently relieved that there was at least the one person in the district who had asked. 

“I’ll be honest,” he soberly said. “There isn’t a lot we can do in the first couple of years, it’s a slow build. Convince the Capitol that it would be exciting if a Twelve tribute won. Right now they think it would be unusual, but ultimately boring, because Swagger and Haymitch didn’t turn out so exciting for them.” Because Haymitch had done his might to make himself unattractive to the audience fast – not that Finnick wouldn’t be doing the same if he knew how, and screw district success. “Work on building a network of sponsors. I can chat them up, but I can’t give them a good reason to stick around for multiple Games, I don’t have that kind of leverage. That’ll be Haymitch’s job, he’s the native. Convince them that they’ll look good once Twelve wins.” He paused for a second. “Sure would help if the district would trust that we know what we’re doing.”

A part of him had braced himself against Gale snorting about that, dismissing the whole plan out of hand, but his face had just hardened. “That doesn’t make our tributes less weak and starved.” 

“There are plenty of weapons that weak kids can learn how to use,” Finnick said. “Especially when nobody expects them to.”

“People wouldn’t stand for that,” Gale pointed out, his eyes alert like he was watching prey, and Finnick sighed. 

“No, probably not,” he agreed, then hesitated and said, although he knew it was probably a terrible idea, “Ever seen Swagger March?”

Gale’s eyes narrowed. “Swagger March is dead.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Finnick said and nervously smirked. “I mean video footage. 

“I’ve heard that Swagger was pretty popular here in Twelve, see. Everybody loved him, nothing like Haymitch and me. Apparently, he used to give speeches on the town square. I’ve seen him on tape in the Games reruns. He was a happy guy, a talker. Made a lot of jokes with the press, flirted with them, with the escorts. He couldn’t make the crowds love him, but he made the reporters like approaching him.” 

Gale had stiffened. “I suppose he did what needed doing.”

Finnick nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, exactly my point.”

Then he closed his mouth, because he didn’t dare say more and although he knew Gale was still watching him, he didn’t want to turn around and check the look on his face. Maybe, he got a bit of what Finnick had meant. Maybe he didn’t. Finnick wasn’t sure if he could.

They sat there for a while longer while the sun sank further down, not talking anymore.

* * *

A while ago, Haymitch had announced he would be paying Noreen from his own money from now on, because he had no interest in becoming indebted to Finnick – whatever that meant, considering it ultimately was the Capitol paying the housekeepers, anyway – and because he wanted to be at liberty of telling her off with full employer authority. 

That was Haymitch being Haymitch, of course. He and Noreen had long developed a strange bond that Finnick didn’t pretend to understand – once, he’d walked in on them focused on a half-finished pot pie, Haymitch nodding along while Noreen listed all the reasons why he’d done a bad job and was a terrible cook, and he should have just asked her before he tried. Haymitch claimed that Noreen had grown aware that his and Finnick’s relationship had changed, deducing this from how she wrinkled her nose in disapproving ways upon entering rooms. However, she still seemed to have decided that discretion was the better part of valor; nobody had started throwing them any more disgusted looks than before on the street. Fallon had to know, too, but hadn’t said a word. 

Finnick and Fallon’s relationship was very different from that, anyway. Finnick still couldn’t shake the memory of how he’d first met the young woman, trying to sell herself to get money for food. Although he knew that he could never have forgiven himself for hiring anybody who needed the job less, he still felt disquieted when she was around; he had a faint fear that he might end up flirting with her, falling into Capitol patterns, that she might think he’d hired her to keep her available for sex, that Haymitch and he _both_ … – the moment his mind went there, it never seemed to want to stop running in circles around it. On her end, Fallon was careful with him, careful and polite and stiffly reserved, no matter he had seen her relaxed and giggling with Noreen. 

But after he paid her that week, he still couldn’t help but say, “Wait,” before she could leave the room, because he couldn’t take it anymore. She paused, questioning look on her face, then stepped back in the kitchen and shut the backdoor behind herself. 

“Yes, Mr. Odair?” Despite how she was such a frail young woman, she stood there like a soldier at attention.

It was hard looking her in the eye, knowing what she had used to do to make money and why. 

“I’ve just, I’ve been wondering,” Finnick said, then paused, glancing at the wallet, still in his hand. She had to work for him, too, he thought, she didn’t have a choice in that either. “Since you’ve started working for me – your financial situation, is it working out for you now? Do you have enough to live?”

Although Fallon didn’t move, it still looked as if she had retreated a careful step back. “Mr. Odair?”

“If… if you need more money than I’m paying you, I want you to tell me that. And, I want you to know that I want you to work for me long-term, if you’ll have me. I don’t want you to think that you… that you have to make more money for the future, while you’re young enough to… to have other ways of making money on top of this job…”

He trailed off. It was just impossible to not dwell on it, on how even if you were safe, you still might feel that you were not, and then what? Maybe if people had a chance to get away, they still didn’t take it. Maybe they’d gotten so used to it that they didn’t think what they wanted should matter.

But Fallon, who had hesitated for a beat and looked down at the floor, now straightened herself up. Then she looked him in the eye, forcing him to hold her gaze.

“My situation is fine, Mr. Odair,” she said very clearly, filled with a hard-earned dignity that made her look beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything with strength. “Thank you for asking, but everything is working out for me very well now.”

Then she gave him a smile, a sparse but honest one and straightened her shoulders a bit more, before turning around and opening the back door, vanishing out of sight. 

When it fell shut behind her, Finnick was still standing there with his wallet in hand. 

“Good,” he muttered, although she couldn’t hear. “I’m glad.” 

Maybe he’d really helped improve a little thing in the world. Maybe that meant he still had a choice in what person to be after all, be a little more like what Haymitch saw. What Haymitch and Mags both claimed they saw. 

He wasn’t certain, though.

* * *

It was a nice degree of warm, neither pressing nor humid like it would have been in Four, a breeze bulging the curtains of the open windows and cooling down the house. They were at Haymitch’s. There had been food and a collaborative cooking achievement, to do with herbs. 

Haymitch had taken a seat on the couch, relaxing back into the backrest when Finnick straddled his lap, leaning down to kiss him. 

Finnick tried not to crowd, despite the fact that he was on top, taller and more muscular than Haymitch. But Haymitch, who couldn’t be considered frail himself, glanced him up and down with a faint trace of awe, running his hands very softly over Finnick’s knees when they kissed another time, and it was Haymitch’s behavior as much as Finnick’s sense of control that made Finnick feel safe, because he knew Haymitch wouldn’t venture closer to his crotch or ass or any other place people used to get themselves off. If he could trust in one thing, it was Haymitch’s self-control when they did this.

The time they spent touching each other had yet to start feeling familiar instead of like an experiment, probing and careful, but they’d both learned that _flawless_ meant _scripted_ and _fake_ – things that just worked out were never real, and Finnick would have preferred either of them stopping and retreating three times over if it meant that none of them had to worry if they looked suitably fuckable from the right angle. 

So they kissed, for a while, as they’d been doing a lot recently, until Haymitch’s breath relaxed into something easier that came from deeper than his solar plexus, soft and steady against Finnick’s lips. His eyes were half-shut, and Finnick carefully worked his hand under his shirt, stroking up and down his side, feeling for skin. 

Finnick resisted a startling urge to move in, rub them against each other. He’d been hard for too long, feeling disheveled, and the bulge of Haymitch’s pants said Haymitch was, too. 

He could have touched Haymitch all day, fighting against how it seemed like a part of Haymitch wanted to be uncomfortable about the attention on him, but the sheer sensations were too good to resist. And in a corner of his mind, Finnick was still waiting to be scared or disgusted or like none of this had anything to do with him, but he was growing just a little more assured that what they were doing with each other really wasn’t anything like that. It was an altogether different thing.

It was that wobbling, but persisting assurance that made him pull away and reach for his own shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the ground next to the couch. He knew he’d soon find the tips of Haymitch’s fingers on his arms and elbows and barely gracing his thighs, and that would be all.

It felt great to both display skin and be safe. 

Haymitch released a sound between a moan and a grunt when they kissed with more urgency, more verbal than Finnick, and it was obvious where this would be going this time – where Finnick wanted to go, too, because he didn’t want to stop. It filled Finnick with all kinds of emotions, anxiety and excitement and determination, interlaced with arousal. 

He felt Haymitch’s hand falling on his, gripping it, telling him _wait._

Finnick froze. 

“You want this to go anywhere,” Haymitch said against his cheek, voice rough. “Let’s move it to the bed.”

* * *

“You really sure you’re alright with this?” Haymitch asked when they’d made it up the stairs, searching Finnick’s face.

“Yes,” Finnick said, exclaiming a long breath. “Yes, let’s go for it.”

He’d sat down on Haymitch’s side of the bed, wondering what would happen and if it would really be different from what he usually did. He still knew he wasn’t supposed to make such a big deal out of it – the books had certainly taught him _that_ , never mind the talks by his mom when he was young about how the sex wasn’t the special part of a relationship, _“no need to talk them into it, hon.”_ But it _was_ a big deal, it was an incredibly big deal, because a part of Finnick would only believe that they could enjoy it together in an okay way once he had proof. 

What he didn’t expect was for Haymitch to go rummaging through one of his drawers and to produce a truly impressive vibrator, colored a bright kind of Capitol yellow, that he thoughtfully weighed in his hand. 

Finnick stared at it. 

“Uhm,” he said slowly, knocked off balance. “That isn’t exactly what I’d expected.”

Haymitch threw him a grim little smirk. 

“Wait for it,” he said, twirling it around in his hand and pushing _on._

The room was filled with the quiet hum of high-end Capitol sex toys that rarely ever made it to the districts, never mind Twelve. Meanwhile at the base, an aggressive blue light diode came to life blinking wildly in the way Capitol phonelets did when they scanned for reception. Finnick, who was somewhat of a sex toy expert, had never seen one do that.

Then the light settled into a more sedate slow rhythm; with a faintly satisfied noise, Haymitch put it on a shelf. 

“So Beetee used to have a real bizarre sense of humor when he was still young and high all the time,” he told Finnick, apropos of nothing. “He goes and builds me that thing in his secret sex toy lab or something, ‘cause clearly that’s what any victors would need on their lonesome in the district. Then decides that maybe it’s hard to relax with all that up your ass while you’ve got people listening in. So he adds a little enhancement to take care of that, too.”

Finnick was rapidly changing gears. “That thing just disabled the _bugs_?” he said, disbelieving. It disabled the bugs so that Haymitch could _masturbate_ in peace?

“Yeah,” Haymitch agreed, lips twitching in an unexpected way. “Look here, the blinking thing says that it’s found one within range to intercept. Not surprised that Snow would put one in my bedroom, I gotta say. That pervert,” he added in a tone of relish that shaved about twenty years off him, as if he’d always wanted to say that. “Makes it look like a storm’s interrupting the transmission or some such. Told me nobody would be the wiser.”

Finnick couldn’t help but laugh. 

Haymitch had a sex toy that disabled the bugs.

He squelched a sudden urge to ask if he’d ever actually used it for its original purpose, because that would have been… he really would like it if Haymitch was okay telling him that.

“Now if Beetee just had better taste in colors,” he said, feeling a little shaky again. 

Whether somebody listened in on them or not while they had sex didn’t matter, apart from how it made them feel, and that had never counted before. Trust Haymitch to remember this thing and to show in this small way how important Finnick was to him exactly.

It had to be nerves that made him retreat ever so slightly when Haymitch slumped down on the bed next to him. He felt disoriented, not sure what would happen. 

Haymitch wrinkled his forehead. 

“The moment you don’t like doing something, we stop,” he said. 

Finnick made himself release the breath he’d been holding. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I’m just nervous. I do all kinds of things all the time. It’s not, I don’t have bad reactions like that.” _I’m a pro,_ he meant to add as a joke and laugh, but couldn’t make himself.

“I don’t give a fuck what you do all the time,” Haymitch replied, an edge to his voice. “You wanna stop, you stop, you better not wait with it until you freak.”

“You’re the one who’s holding still for me,” Finnick said softly, because Haymitch was the one who was making it easy. Finnick was the one who’d gotten to act and make the moves so far, and he was in no way deluding himself into thinking that that was the harder part. “The same goes for you, too.”

“We’ve already had that conversation,” Haymitch reminded him. Haymitch seemed to think that Finnick was the most fucked-up between the two of them, the one who needed more protection by the other. 

Remembering all the things about himself that he’d never told Haymitch about, it was more difficult to argue with his logic than Finnick wanted it to be. Fucked-up, yes, that was a good way of looking at it.

Finnick hadn’t put his shirt back on when they made their way up to the room. When Haymitch leaned back on the bed, inviting him to hover over him in the way he’d often done on the shore of the lake, Finnick was grateful that Haymitch had propped himself up on his elbows in a way that meant he wouldn’t even be able to raise his hands to touch Finnick. 

But they’d moved to the bedroom to have something like sex, and the bugs were disabled so nobody but them would ever have to know this about them, and all of that made Finnick an almost jittery kind of nervous. 

Kissing Haymitch still felt the same way as before, though, and that helped, his cheeks rough from stubbles and his lips soft in contrast. The black hair on his chest visible where the top button of his shirt had come loose, and everything about him just intrinsically strong and steady and masculine. 

When Finnick deepened the kiss eventually and pushed him further onto the bed, Haymitch didn’t resist but just closed his eyes and fisted the sheet, stopping himself from reaching out. Something in Finnick’s chest loosened up again, filled by a sense of power and control and defiance. 

“Can you get out of that shirt?” he said, retreating a bit, feeling breathless. “I want to touch you more.”

He glanced at Haymitch at that, half waiting for Haymitch to get spooked, half the direct opposite of that, for Haymitch to grow impatient and to tell Finnick to get with the program already. 

But Haymitch just looked him over likewise and said, “yeah,” before propping himself up high enough to work his way out of his shirt. Finnick wanted to reach out to help with the buttons, one after the others, slide it over his shoulders and kiss them, then didn’t. It seemed like an overly intimate thing to do. 

Then he was leaning over Haymitch again and running his hand along the skin above his waistband, and Haymitch, who was especially sensitive in that area, muttered “shit” in a shaky way when a full-body shudder ran through him. 

“Good?” Finnick asked; it spoke volumes that Haymitch’s reply was yet again, quietly, “Yeah.” When he ran out of sarcasm, he ran strangely out of words overall. 

Haymitch’s eyes were on Finnick’s chest and shoulders with an uncharacteristic kind of fascination on his face, but none of the possessive greed Finnick was familiar with. 

It raised a somewhat intimidating, but also good feeling in his guts, being looked at in this way that said he was wanted, even sexually, but that didn’t say that was the same as reaching out and using him up. 

Haymitch was holding still for him, and Finnick was just terribly aroused all over again, kissing his throat, his shoulders, feeling for the hair on his chest and his skin, feeling for Haymitch’s reactions to that. It still was elevating that he was doing this without remake, because somehow, that made it more different, made it more like it was theirs. More risky, too, but in a good way.

He’d have liked to tell Haymitch that he looked perfect, but he knew that that would probably be too much to bear for the other man.

He wanted to say it all the more, though, once they’d both gotten out of their pants, stripping off the underwear, too, and he got to look at Haymitch, all that skin he’d be allowed to touch, Haymitch’s erect cock heavy and flush against his belly, dark hair filling his crotch. 

If Haymitch wanted to say anything like that about Finnick, Finnick was relieved that he didn’t, an unpleasant reaction creeping up inside of him even as he thought of it, not so much a feeling rather than a general cold absence of one. He just didn’t want anybody addressing his looks, he knew that. Ideally, he would have liked to be invisible.

The threat of that feeling kept lurking in the back of his mind, the memory of the way he felt when he did these things with Capitol citizens, but he firmly stayed in the here and now. 

They kissed again – they kissed a lot – and they touched, or rather Finnick touched but Haymitch let him, sometimes shifting his weight or leaning in and letting him know where he wanted him to venture – his body communicating for him, and Finnick, too, glad to obey that kind of command when a verbal one would have been impossible to bear. He didn’t even think Haymitch could have verbalized what he wanted him to do, not after those years of trying to want nothing much. His body did it instinctively for him. 

Finnick glanced down Haymitch’s body, thinking about taking him in his mouth, thinking that would be a thing he might like to try soon.

Hesitantly, he stroked along Haymitch’s knee and up the inside of his thigh, and, when that made the other man shudder again, wrapped his hand around his cock and pulled. 

“Fuck,” Haymitch muttered in one long exhaled breath. 

His hands were in the sheets again. He was visibly stopping himself from moving, pressing his eyes shut in reaction. Though when he managed, “Do you want me to…” Finnick shook his head almost reflexively, saying, “Please, just let me, I want,” his hand searching for the right pressure. 

Haymitch’s thighs had tensed but the rest of his body, his torso still held upright on his elbows, went slack. Gathering confidence, Finnick reminded himself how much the other man liked just being touched, how easy that was to give. So he bent over and nibbled at his throat, pressing his cheek against Haymitch’s shoulder, inching closer on the bed so that their bodies were aligned, bronze skin against olive. Haymitch felt very warm.

It took what Haymitch would probably consider an embarrassingly short amount of time, until he grew even harder in Finnick’s hand and instinct took over. Exclaiming an almost surprised, uncontrolled groan, he came, all over Finnick’s hand, and his own belly. 

“Shit,” he muttered against Finnick’s cheek, breathing hard, then, “Fuck.” 

Looking at his face with astonishment, Finnick grew all the more aware of his own arousal. It had become that white, blinding, crazy thing all over his vision. He’d made this happen. Inconceivably, that was turning him on the most, never mind he’d given over a hundred people orgasms in his life without thinking there was anything to it.

Haymitch’s mouth seemed too dry to form words. 

“Do you…” he said the same time Finnick managed, “Can I…” and then Haymitch said, “Whatever you want” which still was the most unexpected thing coming out of Haymitch’s mouth, really. But Finnick was having trouble thinking his thoughts in the right order, overwhelmed, so he reached out, rolled on top to straddle Haymitch and rub himself against his thigh, cock on skin, slickened by come. 

There was a whimper somewhere that he realized had to have been his; he rarely ever did anything as restrained as this with anybody, and still it never felt so great. 

He managed to not quite lie down on Haymitch, because he wasn’t sure if that would be alright, but still stay above him, kissing him again and feeling him just opening up to him, for long and sloppy kisses that had nothing to do with finesse but everything with hunger. This wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t flawlessly choreographed, it was improvised and bare. It was just Finnick, and Haymitch underneath him, getting what they wanted, how they wanted it, and it was so much better than even masturbating to this as a fantasy, when it was safe. 

When he came, Haymitch’s thigh became even more slippery and Finnick moved against it, not thinking anymore, just disbelieving about how this was Haymitch, about how he was doing this with Haymitch, about how Haymitch was letting him come on him. 

He couldn’t help but keep moving for a moment longer even after he was spent, his hips helplessly trying to push on. 

Then he somehow had the presence of mind to crash not onto Haymitch but next to him, sprawling on his back all over the mattress. In the corner of his eye, Haymitch slumped back, too, the two of them making the bedframe shake harshly with their combined weight. When Finnick looked over, Haymitch was rubbing his hand all over his face, wiping away sweat. 

He was swearing to himself again, and Finnick wanted to laugh, because of _course_ Haymitch would swear like a sailor in bed. He was suddenly thrilled like a child to find that out about him – nobody else knew, nobody at all because _there weren’t any bugs in here_. 

“Good?” he couldn’t help but ask with a probably dorky smile. Imagining what it had to look like on his face, he wanted to laugh all the more.

Haymitch gave him a long look, fond but meant to be dry. 

“Right,” Finnick told the ceiling. “Stupid questions again.”

“Yeah,” he heard Haymitch say. 

This hadn’t been much, Finnick tried to remind himself. Even in Four, far away from the Capitol, nobody made a big production about falling into bed with people if the opportunity arose, and there was so much more two adult men could do together. He, of all people, knew that. His oldest brother, Perri, boasting with friends about his one-night conquests, would have called anything that didn’t even require condoms a wasted opportunity. 

But it still had felt nothing like he’d imagined, nothing like the books had described either, where it was all wish fulfillment and smooth and kind of vague and had nothing to do with reality. He hadn’t been scrambling to recreate that, the way he would have with some of his clients. 

And despite the fact that a part of Finnick, one that he _knew_ was a compulsive, obsessive one, was already cataloguing things he’d done that he could do better next time, others that he should repeat, he was just filled with amazement about how it had been great. It had been like nothing else and _theirs_ and Finnick couldn’t _wait_ to do it again, a bit differently next time. 

It filled him with such a massive wave of power that he didn’t dare move, least he could somehow break it and it would be gone. It seemed to have worked for Haymitch just fine, too, and maybe, Finnick just needed to stop worrying and trust that Haymitch knew what concessions he was ready to make. 

They lay there for a moment in mutual content, recovering, close enough to feel the body heat of the other, for Finnick to hear Haymitch breathe, still long and deep from way inside his lungs. He could always hear Haymitch’s degree of relaxation from the way he breathed.

Which was why he grew aware when it strained, turning flat very abruptly, and then Haymitch was already pulling himself up. 

“Taking a shower,” he said, nauseated and pale, and scrambled off the bed before Finnick could move.

* * *

“Is it the smell?” Finnick asked when Haymitch emerged from the bathroom, his whole body filled with the tension of waiting so long for the door to open again. A person should have a right to privacy, he hadn’t dared to intrude, just kept guard.

Haymitch looked angry at himself. “Probably ain’t how you expected this to go,” he said. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t need to tell Finnick that he’d thought it wouldn’t happen like that. It showed clearly on his face, and his skin still had an unhealthy, shaken tint. He hadn’t put his clothes back on, just wrapped himself in a towel, and Finnick thought he probably couldn’t, not the same clothes he’d worn when they got started, sex smells and reminders clinging to them. 

“I’m going to take a shower, too,” Finnick declared, reaching a decision. “When I’m done, I’ll change the sheets. You wait downstairs.” 

“This really ain’t what you deserve, Finnick,” Haymitch said, reaching out to grab his shoulder when Finnick tried to make his way past, giving him a beseeching look. 

Finnick paused. “It’s just a shower,” he gently replied. “I’ll deal.”

Haymitch’s jaw was working, as if he just wanted to be angry again, angry at himself and safe. He looked away, though the fact that he was doing so seem to make him unhappy, too. _I told you so,_ his face said. 

“In the arena,” he said, his fingers stiffening on Finnick’s shoulder. Standing so close to Finnick, close enough to smell the come and sweat, had to be hard, but he didn’t give an inch. “It’s the arena. There was rain, but not enough of it to wash. All the water was poisoned, we didn’t dare touch it. I was in there two weeks. No way to clean up, the blood, the sweat. I got out, I couldn’t get the stench out of my nose. I just, I can’t stand it.” 

He didn’t say, _And then they forced me to fuck people and there were more sweat and body odors. I couldn’t leave and wash it off, they were the ones who decided when I could leave._ He didn’t need to. Finnick knew how that worked well enough.

“It’s fine,” Finnick said, putting his hand on Haymitch’s and squeezing. “This is nothing.” 

Finnick didn’t care how many issues there were, he didn’t allow himself to, and he resolved to refuse calling it a problem if it could be solved. 

When he stood in Haymitch’s shower ten minutes later to wash away the traces of what they had done – odors he wasn’t so fond of either, honestly – it hit him how he’d always thought there was something wrong with him, because everybody else had all these triggers and he didn’t. Because Haymitch got nauseous from something like sweat and Finnick didn’t. He’d thought there was something wrong with him, but what he’d just done with Haymitch had been _hard_ , navigating around all those obstacles. Even Finnick saw that. Some of them Haymitch’s, yes. But most of them Finnick’s. Most of this had been Haymitch keeping Finnick safe.

In that one moment, he still didn’t hate himself, he didn’t consider himself a failure or a freak, he just felt faintly relieved and strangely confident, about the both of them.


	16. Chapter 15: Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Must be so nice to have been saved by your mentor,” Caramel said, sweet as poison._

### Chapter 15: Change

The stage had been set for one guest only, with two comfortable plush leather chairs in deep greens that corresponded perfectly with the chartreuse Flickerman’s stylist team had chosen for his hair and costumes this season. They also worked nicely to show off Haymitch’s plain dark blues, seated across from Flickerman in a tailcoat so simple in design that it could almost be called provocative. It wasn’t the senile Twelve stylists’, but Cherry’s doing, who had befriended Effie when tending to Finnick, taking over as a personal favor when she found her almost in tears over the Twelve designs this morning. Cherry had modified one of Haymitch’s old outfits without much fuss, dying it to match this year’s colors, adding the slightest tinge of dark blue to his hair to match shades. Haymitch had taken the abuse stoically. Elaborate styling would make him look like he meant business as mentor and satisfy Snow. 

It had mostly been Haymitch who’d figured out how to best turn all that negative attention from his breakdown into something that would help their district marketing and eventually, benefit their tributes, plotting a rather heartwarming tale of recovery. While Finnick had received semi-formal training in tribute and district marketing by Calina and Mags, Haymitch had an intuitive knack for it. It was all about thinking outside the box, being different from the others, presenting a unique selling point. And once Haymitch broke out of his paralyzing fear of getting people killed by doing so, outside the box was where his mind went first. 

Tonight wouldn’t be about surprising the crowds though, just about keeping people interested in the next big thing to come. It wouldn’t be the end of their story, just of the first act. 

It was the hardest television appearance that Haymitch had scheduled this Games. 

It was the eve of the second day of Training Week. Finnick and Haymitch had herded their tributes into the Capitol. They knew neither of them would probably survive, not even the girl, who was the candlemaker’s daughter and not starved and almost seventeen, but who Finnick secretly thought was a sociopath, and not in a way that the audience would appreciate or understand or that would help her stay alive. 

Tonight, all of Panem’s eyes were on _Arena Talk With Flickerman_ , even though this special was just focusing on of Haymitch Abernathy’s recovery from addiction. The Capitol liked watching the human interest stories in carefully administered, small doses; they digested them with the same ease and enthusiasm that Finnick’s starved, thirteen-year-old Seam tribute devoured his eight protein shakes a day. Spending two hours caring about an alcoholic made people feel selfless, more justified in going back to cheering for the dying district kids.

The version of Haymitch that Cherry had created looked collected and attentive and not at all exhausted on screen, not at all like two days of Games preparation had almost been enough to break him apart all over again. The dark circles under his eyes had been covered up with expensive concealers, and the ever so slight tension in his back when he was lounging in his chair made him appear like he was carefully taking in everything Flickerman had to say. 

He was currently taking a sip of his drink, just water of course, as Flickerman had assured himself early in the show half with token concern, half with a laugh, because he wouldn’t ever have thought otherwise, of course. Since then, the conversation had taken a serious turn, while they discussed the issue of addiction like the responsible, compassionate adults that they were.

“Of course, it was hard,” Haymitch said when he put down the glass. “Didn’t lie about that last year, won’t start doing it now. I mean, yeah. It’s hard to explain to people who haven’t had to go through withdrawal themselves. Capitol’s been golden, everybody’s been so supportive and great, really, but it’s just hard to explain. It’s… you miss drinking, every day, yeah. You don’t even do it anymore because you’re trying to forget what a failure you’ve become, or whatever excuse… I mean, that was how I was thinking about it then. You just do it because there’s the liquor, and that’s what you do with it, you drink it. And then, you can’t, doctors tell you that you can’t, it’ll kill you, it’s a disease. And it takes a while until that penetrates. And it’s hard.”

“Is it possible, maybe, that you were also using drinking as an excuse to yourself?” Flickerman delicately asked. “Haymitch, I don’t want to imply… But, maybe you didn’t want to face that, as it appeared at the time, your mentoring strategy hadn’t worked out. We were made to understand last year that you were feeling very burdened by that, possibly more than was justified. It’s just work, after all.” 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Haymitch said. “It isn’t even that I didn’t know I was depending on the alcohol, you know. It was an excuse. I was a drunk, that was who I was, I didn’t have to get my life in order, I didn’t even have to start trying because it wouldn’t work anyway, because I was a drunk.” 

_“You'll realize that you can have the same thing we're doing right now, except with someone who isn't an old, overweight drunk who’s gotten all his tributes killed.”_ Watching the broadcast from behind the stage, Finnick remembered Haymitch telling him that, just as calmly, last month at the lake. He didn’t like it when they said the truth on screen.

Flickerman smiled at the audience with a gentle, conspiratorial air. “And I think this is the point where we have to remind Haymitch that he was wrong, everybody. Remember those wonderful compliments we saw this year’s mentors giving him in our montage.” 

Applause roared up, and Haymitch smiled bashfully, taking another sip of his drink. 

_Fuck you all,_ his face said in a very friendly way. 

“Thanks,” he said, not missing a beat in building on the bullshit. “Finnick Odair’s been telling me things like that, too. Great motivator, is what he is. Incredibly kind man.”

“Has he been helping you during your difficult adjustment, then?”

“Oh, plenty,” Haymitch replied. “He’s a great friend, a great man. I wouldn’t know what I’d do without him. He’s been there a lot to listen, when I needed to talk. Great sounding board for a talker like me. He keeps encouraging me to call my therapist, even now that I’m cured.”

A lascivious smile appeared on Flickerman’s face when he leaned forward and winked. “You mean when he hasn’t been too busy charming the young men and women of Twelve. We know exactly what kind of a party animal your mentoring partner can be, you know. He makes it very hard for us to overlook.” 

Face growing a little too blank, Haymitch put down the glass while he waited for the spurt of laughter in the audience to quiet down. His eyes followed his hand, the motion deliberate.

“Surprisingly,” he said, a little clipped, “he mostly stays in when we’re at home. Finnick’s a picture of professionalism, actually. Don’t forget he’s from a real successful district originally. We’ve been working on strategy ever since I settled back in. Little time to go out and have fun, and what time he could make for it, he’d still rather spend on the Games. It’s different in the Capitol, so many great people to meet, but mentors do most of their work at home. Finnick’s perfectly dedicated, no room for distractions. Real workaholic, that one. Twelve is incredibly lucky to have him.” 

“He told us in an interview just yesterday that most of those intriguing future plans for Twelve were your idea, you know.”

Haymitch shrugged. “We work as a team.

“Granted,” he added before Flickerman could move on, getting more comfortable in his chair. “It’s gonna take time. We’re going to change everything, build something new from scratch. These things always take time, maybe decades – you can’t change stats like ours overnight. For the, what, fifty Games we sucked – I mean, no reason to gloss over the facts here, right? That’s what’s what – for the fifty Games we sucked, mathematically speaking, we’d have to play fifty great Games for the figures to even out. I’m sure you’ve got some expert on your team who can explain that with a diagram. We’re determined though. _I_ ’m determined, now. Finnick has convinced me that it’s possible to start over. I think there’s good reason for hope.

“And I don’t know that people have noticed her much yet, but my tribute, Aster, she’s special, even now. I got a feeling she’ll have one or two surprises in store for you this Games. 

“Don’t write her off just yet.” 

That got him a little bit of applause, not so much for Aster the sociopath tribute, who’d proven it was possible for a tribute to botch the parade, and who would certainly move on to butcher her interview. It was for Haymitch’s determination and verve despite the odds, and Finnick saw the subtle shift in Flickerman when he recalculated screen-time, deciding to detour to a short set of questions on mentoring Aster Cagney and Rodey Wills. What was it like to mentor tributes with so little promise? How did Haymitch manage to keep trying? Didn’t he know that the Capitol would love to see him succeed?

Finnick released a small breath. They’d be able to work with this, even though he knew Haymitch wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Not that he was confident that Haymitch would get any sleep this whole month – or that Finnick would himself.

Time to start playing the Games.

* * *

Mags invited them to have dinner in the Four quarters after the tributes went to bed, on the last training day, and for a while, everything was good. 

They both felt somewhat awkward about the invitation, coming back to the Capitol prepared to fight the press, when suddenly Mags was acting like blood family and everything was so mundane in the Four quarters. Everything was as if they weren’t back at the Capitol, where Finnick was expecting his first date tomorrow evening, where Haymitch’s sobriety was paraded up and down the television screens like a circus curiosity. There were four courses, seafood and fish salads. The light, salty dishes of Four, the smells and spices that Finnick had so painfully missed – and even Caramel’s presence was bearable. The only thing different from all the meals Finnick had shared with Mags here in the past were Haymitch’s presence and the fact that Mags wasn’t offering them any wine.

By unspoken agreement, Finnick and Haymitch had decided to keep things between them as quiet as possible, even in Mentor Central where only other victors and Avoxes would see; although there had, of course, been some friends who’d figured it out, and rumors were already making the rounds. Mags had watched him and Haymitch through the first two days with her sharp hawkish eyes, then told Finnick to bring Haymitch along. 

Of course, there was also Johanna, whose eyes had grown wide in an almost comical way when she had figured it out, punching his shoulder and calling him a dog like it was the greatest thing she’d ever heard. And Haymitch’s friends knew, Finnick was fairly sure; Caramel obviously did, no matter Finnick hadn’t been able to look him in the eye even once during the evening, and Finnick supposed that meant Beetee and Chaff were informed, too. But Mags would always belong into a category by herself.

When Finnick had informed Haymitch about the invitation, a strange confused look had flickered across his face. Then, he had shown up dressed in good Capitol clothes, chosen without a stylist’s help, mixing muted colors without the flashier coats and pants that tended to complete ensembles. It was the first time Finnick got a glimpse of what Haymitch would consider proper evening wear if he had the choice and bothered to care, and it looked good on him. It looked neat. 

_Haymitch, meet the in-laws,_ Finnick thought with an almost hysterical edge, the main course appearing on the table between them. He reached for his fish fork and stared at it for a moment; he’d never even noticed that they didn’t have those in Twelve. 

“It is called lobster,” Mags advised Haymitch with the superiority of old age, district pride shining through. “Seafood might look intimidating to those not familiar with it, but is in actuality very healthy and amongst the best food of Panem. This is a two pound lobster, hopefully sufficient for a strong man like you. You use those little pliers on the left of your plate to crack it open, which are called tongs, then you use the little fork on the right when need be. You dip the meat in the butter. I will demonstrate.” 

“I remember,” Haymitch softly said. His eyes flickered at Mags. “You showed me on my Victory Tour.”

“Twelve savage probably thought he was eating a bug,” Caramel muttered at his plate. 

“Aw Conny, you know me so well,” Haymitch deadpanned. 

The use of that nickname that Finnick had never heard was an uncomfortable reminder that the two of them were friends, never mind that it was one of the friendships that belonged at the Capitol, where everything but the friendships sucked. Caramel disliked being close to Finnick so obviously that it was impossible to not return the sentiment.

Giving the two men a fond look, Mags reached across the table to pat Haymitch’s hand. 

“I should have invited you to eat with us during Games long before. It must have been very quiet on your floor with nobody but that Effie Trinket and those stylists of yours.” Then she expertly started dismantling her own lobster. “Of course, you’ll be eating with us often from now on, alongside Finnick. You’re family now.” She gave the two of them an admonishing look. “Don’t think old Mags doesn’t notice these things.”

Haymitch cleared his throat, while on the other end of the table, Caramel snorted into his napkin. 

Finnick had an uncomfortable feeling that he was blushing, which he couldn’t remember having done in years. 

He thought he should point out that this thing between them was actually still pretty new, that they hadn’t secretly exchanged marriage vows or whatever Mags thought this was, and he didn’t even know if they were calling it a relationship. They hadn’t really been calling it anything. 

“Actually…” he started muttering, not sure where he would go with it, but Mags primly wrinkled her nose. 

“Old,” she announced to the table at large, “not blind.”

She was looking rather pleased with herself. 

Awkwardly, Finnick glanced at Haymitch, but Haymitch was neither snorting to himself nor looking flustered. Instead, he was staring at his food, a strange expression on his face. 

Mags attacked her lobster with gusto and Caramel watched the two of them in an uncomfortable way, then cleared his throat and focused on taking a sip of his drink. 

Finnick felt something inside of him twitch when he realized that Haymitch hadn’t been claimed as family by anybody for a very long time, maybe not at all since he’d won. 

Reminding himself that they were in the Four quarters, where nobody who shouldn’t see would observe them or care, he reached out under the table and bumped his hand against the back of Haymitch’s hand. 

A moment later, he felt Haymitch’s hand wrapping around his and holding on to it like to an anchor for a moment, squeezing almost too hard. 

A degree of Finnick’s tension resolved. Mags was happy for him. He was happy to have this bit of Four back, too, this little glimpse of home but not all of it, when he couldn’t have handled all of it. Food that tasted like it was supposed to. The twang of his district. He’d have that once a year, and that was good. That was okay.

It was good to have Haymitch close by, how that bit of Four could belong to him, too. 

Maybe this Games wouldn’t go as badly as he’d feared, after all. Two days into the Training Week, Finnick really tried to believe that.

* * *

“It’s not like they’re going to make it.” 

Finnick flinched, refusing to look at the door where apparently Caramel was standing, hovering but not quite entering. 

It was later the same evening, and Mags had been deeply engrossed in a conversation with Haymitch about knitting, of all things, so Finnick had tried to remember his duties for a moment and snuck into the small Four study, where the Games channel was running on the big screen on the wall. At this time of night, the first in-depth analysis of tribute training would be coming in, targeting Games professionals and geeks. 

It maybe had been a little overwhelming, spending time with Mags again who’d so firmly taken him aside and looked him in the eye and told him he was a good man, she hoped life in Twelve never allowed him to forget that. And about all the people who said to say he was missed. 

It had been overwhelming spending time with Caramel, for that matter, who had lurked like he’d rather be anywhere else but stayed either for Haymitch’s sake or because Mags had demanded it, throwing Finnick dark looks across the room all evening, as if he had to stop himself from shuddering when he did. 

He sounded wooden now, and Finnick wondered why the fuck he had come here while trying hard not to tense up in an obvious way and knowing he was failing. 

His eyes flickered at the screen, noting that it hadn’t been Aster or Rodey who Caramel had dismissed out of hand, but the male and female from Two. Their stills were up, intimidating, tall and muscular eighteen-year-olds the both of them, stone-faced and distinguishable from each other only by gender; their weight and height stats were up, the commentator discussing each of their possible weapons preferences and range. It looked like maces, hammers or clubs.

He cleared his voice, trying not to think about how he’d spent all his life on the Victors’ Rock avoiding Caramel, of how Caramel reminded him of so many things. Of how he had to be reminding Caramel of so many things. 

Of how Haymitch hadn’t been calling him Caramel tonight but _Conny,_ and how Finnick had lived next door to that man for six years happy to not know that about him. 

He cleared his voice, desperately wanting to be somewhere else. 

_Haymitch’s friend,_ he told himself, uncomfortably crossing his hands in front of his chest. _At least, you should try, if he does too._

“They look capable enough to me,” he said about the Two Careers. 

Caramel snorted, the sound closer to Finnick now, and that was the door clicking shut behind him. 

“They’re not going to score high,” he said. “Nine, tops, both of them. They poll as dumb, because even the Capitol can see it, and they’re boring as fuck.” He didn’t reveal how he knew that, although poll results hadn’t been aired yet and would be modified to keep it exciting, anyway. And he definitely sounded like he didn’t even want to be in the room, so Finnick had no idea why he _was._ “Two’s making a statement with them, that’s all. They’re just desperate to play it safe after that female imploded last year. Next year, they’ll be the district to watch, they’ll be greedy for it. They’ve benched Lyme and she’s always been their most creative marketer, they’re working on something real different and new.”

“You shouldn’t be discussing that with me, I don’t mentor for Four anymore.”

“Like anybody really gives a shit about what kid survives,” Caramel said, a cold, dismissive kind of spite in his voice that sent a shudder down Finnick’s spine. It said Caramel refused to care about his tributes. His voice was full of _hate._

 _Why would Haymitch even be friends with that guy,_ Finnick involuntarily thought, and then it had to be the Capitol knocking him off balance all over, because the next thing that popped into his head, full of self-loathing, was, _why would he want to be with_ me. _”_

There was a fierce grace in the way Caramel moved; even now Finnick could make it out in the corner of his eye, despite how the man clamped up when Finnick was around. Caramel was almost the exact same physical type as Finnick, same bronze skin and hair, and if their family status wasn’t a matter of public record, they’d be mistaken for relatives all the time. But Finnick didn’t want to be like Caramel, Caramel who people had stopped caring about when that younger, even more beautiful version of him came along; he didn’t want to know if Caramel ever got so nauseous he’d puked just from looking in the mirror, if he’d ever wanted to tear off his skin with his nails or better yet, a fisherman’s knife, after closing his eyes at night and dreaming of… dreaming of… 

_No._ Finnick pressed his eyes shut, drawing a sharp breath. 

_The Games,_ he told himself. _The Games are doing that to you, that’s all._

Tomorrow, his first client of the season wasn’t even a bad date, just an old regular, no weirdo, but for the first time in his life, Finnick had returned to the Capitol knowing exactly what it should _be_ like to touch somebody and how it would be so completely different from when you were able to say no, when it was safe to retreat, when you could _stop._

There _had_ to be something wrong with a person who could _fuck_ people for years and never even _guess_ that.

“Are you going to tell me you’ll kill me if I hurt Haymitch, is this what this is about?” he heard himself say, opening his eyes to look at the screen. Breathing in, breathing out. Not looking at Caramel. 

Caramel snorted again. “Enough of that already going around without my help,” he said, then shut up abruptly, as if he’d pressed his lips closed. 

_Then why_ are _you here?_ Finnick wanted to spit out, hating everything about this, hating that he had come to see _Mags_ and be home with Haymitch for a while – what a stupid thing to want – and then Caramel had had to be there and mess it all up. 

“Did you know I was supposed to mentor at your Games?” Caramel said abruptly, cutting off his train of thought, voice nauseated and flat. 

Something unpleasant and cold stabbing him, Finnick gave him a startled glance after all. “What?”

 _No, please._ He really didn’t know where this would be going but he instantly knew that it was a story he didn’t want to ever be told. 

Caramel’s lips had moved into a grimace that made him look anything but fuckable and beautiful, just ugly. On screen, he was an elegant man, with a dancer’s fluid motions, a soft smile. A man you didn’t have to fear while you peeled him out of his clothes. 

“Not you,” Caramel clarified. “The girl. That brunette volunteer with the curls, whatever her name…”

“Landa,” Finnick cut him short. 

Landa who’d stumbled upon him wandering the length of the train at night, because he was finding out that he couldn’t sleep on trains, especially not that night. Landa who’d sat him down and ruffled his hair and told him it would all be fine, because she’d thought him dead meat, the poor fourteen-year-old boy, a small, selfless kindness she could afford. He’d still have killed her, if need be.

Caramel’s chin jerked into a nod. 

“I didn’t because I was too busy losing my shit and screaming at Mags,” he said, but it sounded like, _Look at me. Look at what a sick fucker I am._

Finnick felt his eyes watering because he was training them on the screen with so much focus that he couldn’t blink. Not that he could have said what the screen showed. 

“We’d had a male volunteer scheduled to take your place, see,” Caramel said. “He’d backed out, but I didn’t know. I hadn’t been told.” It happened all the time, Four volunteers were _volunteers_ and it hit a lot of them, the morning before, what it meant, but Finnick still didn’t want to _hear._ Caramel wasn’t telling a tale but fighting a battle against himself, forcing himself out of sheer spite. “I was sure Mags had told the kid no at the last minute once she saw what a pretty boy had been reaped.”

Finnick’s breath caught in his throat. 

Disbelief, colored by anger rose in his chest, finally making him turn around and take in Caramel, the fine, subdued, fashionably chartreuse silk shirt that said, _not for sale anymore_ , the face that said Caramel hated this room, hated Finnick; he was bombarding himself with triggers in here but he apparently hated the world too much to care.

Finnick had been _fourteen_ when he was reaped, at a time when they still said that fourteen-year-olds didn’t win the Games.

“Mags never would…” he breathed and Caramel laughed, in a harsh way, as if he was about to puke. 

“Must be so nice to have been saved by your mentor,” he said, sweet as poison.

For whatever reason, Finnick suddenly recalled that Caramel had been a volunteer. He’d known that, of course. Nobody in Four was named ‘Caramel Doll’ by their _parents._ It was a Capitol name, one that sounded like it had been _made_ to tell the audience that this one would be for sale, and Four volunteers did that sometimes, changing their name into something that would sell. It made it easier to transition, if you put things behind you, if you said, _Yesterday, I was that person, but I’m a tribute now. I’m a hero of Four. I saved a child and I might just survive. Here is my weapon. This is my life._

But it was hard to imagine Caramel – _Conny_ – thinking anything like that. 

“What happened,” he said, mouth too dry, unable to even make it a question. 

Caramel had been pressing his lips together so hard they’d turned white. 

Maybe the Capitol had burned it out of him, whatever inner beauty there once had been. 

Because it _was_ a beautiful thing, volunteering in Four. Your name was carved into the Monument of Sacrifice in Middletown, an honor Finnick hadn’t known. You were a hero. People lit lanterns in their front windows every night during your run at the Games, because the Peacekeepers could stop you from celebrating the savior of a child, but they couldn’t forbid that quiet, angry, defiant show of respect; the whole district was illuminated in silent, heartfelt gratitude. 

“I’m _supposed_ to say,” Caramel said, each word clipped and dripping with sarcasm, “that things were _different_ , before Bunny and me. I’m supposed to believe them that nobody knew what would _happen_ to us. The times were different, see. They’d been selling victors, sure…” His voice trembled on the word, but didn’t slow, didn’t hesitate, just barged on through; this was just what it was like. “But not like _this,_ not like _us._ A couple of gigs, whatever, and patrons wouldn’t show you off so much in those days. They were all drenched in guilt, you could feel it when you touched them. 

“Like it makes a _difference_ that nobody saw it coming, like that makes it nobody’s fault,” he added with rancor. 

Everything about Caramel seemed to shake now, although objectively he was standing still. The study was too small to retreat, otherwise Finnick would have done so already; he’d have bumped into the desk. “Mags was my mentor, too,” Caramel said. “Said she didn’t know what she was setting up. Be charming, she told me. Play up your looks, change your name to something fancy and Capitol that makes them think of sex. And it worked, didn’t it?” It was a grimace more than a smirk. “I won that Games _fair_ , I’d been a _volunteer_ and suddenly I was a whore.

“Viral marketing, they call it, you know, what they did to you and me. When you offer up a product and it just explodes, runs wild on the networks. When looking isn’t enough because people need more. 

“I wore a fucking fig leaf to my parade.” 

He paused, breathing heavily as if he’d really fought instead of talked, and Finnick couldn’t look away from him anymore. He just watched, frozen, unable to speak or move, just knowing that he didn’t want to hear. This was not what he ever wanted to hear. A sudden, unwanted insight that he’d never wanted either told him that Mags probably couldn’t bear to hear it, too. 

_He’s Haymitch’s friend,_ he tried telling himself again but truth was, right now, he really, really didn’t care. 

Looking at Caramel was too much like looking in a mirror, and Finnick couldn’t bear to know another story of himself.

He couldn’t bear for Caramel to become _Conny,_ or whatever his real name might be. Mags never called him that. 

Maybe Caramel just didn’t let her; he called Bunita by her Capitol nickname, too, after all. 

“I hated them, all of them,” Caramel said, calmer now, though his whole stance was still tense like a bow. “I hated Mags. There are days…” His voice tightened, breathing it out. “There are days when I still _do._ I hated Calina because they hadn’t sold her like _this._ _None_ of them had warned me, they hadn’t seen it _coming._ One or two people my ass,” he breathed. “That’s what Clipper said when I agreed to volunteer. Handful of people to fuck. They _made me like this_ and now they somehow think it should be _okay_ because they didn’t _mean_ for it to be like that, because they didn’t fucking _think._ The crowds loved the slut campaign. They loved it so much, when Bunny came around three years after me, they did it all over again.” 

The television was still running. In the corner of Finnick’s eye, without him consciously taking note, Aster was on, diagrams explaining why she didn’t have the build to fight with a spear, no matter Twelve tributes never had the build to fight with anything. “This one could run right past your defense,” a commentator said. “If she should choose a knife, and let’s never forget that her mentor won with a knife, she could sneak right past and her opponent will only notice when that blade is twisted in their back.” 

Caramel had been sold for fifteen years, Finnick suddenly thought, and it had stopped only because Finnick had come along; it was his twentieth anniversary this year. It would be longer for Bunita. And it had been seven years now for him, but he’d won young. 

None of it would ever end; there wouldn’t be another Finnick for him. 

“Why are you telling me this,” he managed, something like fear forming a knot in his guts, but it seemed like Caramel hadn’t even heard. 

“You’d think I’d have seen it coming from the name I picked.” The older victor laughed again, that terrible sound. “The fuck. I made it happen, too. And that name wasn’t even my idea.” Again the laugh, almost deranged. “Want to know why I picked it? I’d lost a fucking bet. I was a dumb kid who’d lost a bet. I had this friend at Games school, I’d dared him to steal this trainee’s panties and he did and he made up the name. If you do it, I’d said, I’ll use the stupid name you made up as a joke. Later, they used him to threaten me with.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Finnick demanded, louder, because he needed to _know._

Caramel regrouped. 

“Because,” he said, raising his chin, although he wasn’t looking at Finnick. “Because. Because Haymitch is my fucking friend and I fucking refuse to run away from the man he looks at like that. I refuse.”

He took a breath. 

“Because, Odair, we’re fucked, you’re fucked, we’re all of us done, none of this is ever going to be over. Mags has this _ridiculous_ idea…” He caught himself, maybe remembering he was about to say too much aloud but Finnick knew – Mags said Snow was insane to establish a system that produced veterans year after year, experienced and ruthless fighters and proven killers who all of them wanted him dead. She said the Games would annihilate themselves. She said one day, it would all topple over. “Nothing is going to change,” Caramel repeated. “We’re going to grow old and die although none of us deserve it and there still will be the Hunger Games. I thought everything was just repeating again. I thought you were like me. 

“But you’re not,” he said. His eyes flickered at Finnick then, just briefly, and there was something dark and dangerous and deadly in them, nothing like you would never see in a Games. A child could never know enough about the world to look like that, not even an eighteen-year-old Career after the victory kill. “I was wrong. You’re nothing like me. You’re going to go home with Haymitch and you’re going to build a fucking life for yourself. So, just… don’t fuck it up. I don’t want either of you to be me.” 

One of the things that all the victors shared was the constant awareness of the surveillance, of how there were bugs everywhere recording their words, and probably somebody somewhere was working on ways of intruding their thoughts. Caramel had stopped himself short of talk of treason, but still, these were not good things to say aloud; it just seemed that he had ceased to care. He might have decided that nothing could hurt him further, or he might have decided it was worth it, that nothing made a difference anymore. 

Caramel lived alone in his house on the Rock; if friends came over to see him, Finnick hadn’t run into them.

“People,” Caramel said, breathing, “People. Mags. People tell you stuff. You’re telling yourself stuff. You think there are things you need to be. Four hero, Twelve hero, whatever. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. They _made you_ , accept it. I can’t even _understand_ how the two of you managed, how you’ve even made this thing between you two happen. Fuck all of them. Start thinking of yourself first.

“There’s going to be a point when Haymitch will tell you that saving some kid or some bullshit like that is more important than the two of you. Don’t listen to him. There isn’t a difference, whether your kid makes it or some other. He loves fucking things up, too.”

Finnick was staring at him. 

He didn’t believe him; he didn’t want to remember anything about this conversation, but he still knew he had been told something profound nonetheless. Something so foreign to him that he would never have gotten from Haymitch or Mags.

He knew, without a doubt, that the reason Caramel had never gotten from Mags what he wanted was because Mags couldn’t afford to question her life’s work; it would all fall apart. Because, yes, they were all of them fucked. 

He knew, without even blinking, that Caramel had told him the truth about what had happened and yet he would still never hesitate to take Mags’ side. 

_You could still start trying to build that life now._ He could feel those words forming, but when he tried to grasp them they just fell away, falling apart. Caramel, he was certain, would perceive them as a mockery. 

_He’s me,_ Finnick thought, although Caramel wasn’t, not at all. 

“What’s your real name,” he said, insanely, inconsequentially. He was grappling for something. He’d thought he wouldn’t want to know, but now he did, anyway.

Caramel shot him a dark look. Then, he smirked. 

“Coinneach Delaney,” he said. “So you might see why Mags advised a change.” 

For a second, he seemed to be waiting for a reaction, but Finnick still didn’t know what to say. So Caramel turned on his heel, abruptly, and walked to the door. His stiffness had seeped out of him while he talked, leaving nothing but that dancer’s grace except it was a dangerous one now, the deadly, dangerous movement of a man who had killed with intent. Nobody would have touched that man and survived.

 _Conny,_ Finnick thought. The door fell shut, making him flinch. 

_I could never hate Mags,_ he thought, although the rest of him remained stuck. _He’s right. I’m nothing like him. I’ll never want to be anything like him._

Of course, Caramel had probably never wanted to be anything like himself, either, but that wasn’t how it worked. That wasn’t their life. His whole rant had been filled with self-loathing and hate for what he was and what he had become, the same way Finnick had tried so hard to not feel about himself, except on display where everybody could see, nowhere near hidden from the world anymore. It made him shudder. There should have been a bigger reaction than that, but none of them seemed adequate. 

Finnick was aware that while he might be standing in a small room smelling of Four, he was still in the Capitol, in a building built for the Games and a society arranged around them. He had hated coming back for the Games. Haymitch had hated coming back for the Games. They’d both of them known that this first time back in the Capitol might just be enough to break both of them and all their future plans apart. 

But like always, having known that hadn’t meant he’d expected the reminder to hit him from this new direction this time. Again, the Capitol had found new ways of taking little bits of what he thought was true and right away. 

Anxiety was rolling through his body; it felt like skin was rotting off his bones. 

_This is the best we’ll ever get to feel,_ he thought, like he had told himself a month ago going to sleep in Haymitch’s bed, except this time, he couldn’t make himself remember how anything about that was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the very long delay. I feel stupid for that to have happened right after I made that optimistic announcement about wanting to update every other week. You know how it goes - first I had the flu, then I suddenly needed to switch scenes around and the finished chapter wasn't finished anymore at all. I'm going to be trying for the bi-weekly update from now on; let's cross our fingers and hope for the best. 
> 
> Also, tell me what you think! I adore all kinds of feedback, no matter how short or long. :)


	17. Chapter 16: Capitol Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Make a splash. Be extraordinary. Make them remember you long after you’re dead, and don’t beg or cry when you die. That’s what I said."_

### Chapter 16: Capitol Reprise

“Good to have you back, man,” Chaff said, clapping Haymitch on the back before he took the seat at his console. It seemed like a light-hearted gesture, but nothing was ever light-hearted on Day One of the Games, and Chaff’s hand lingered a little too long, gripped a little too tight. “Nothing exciting ever happens when you aren’t here to puke in company. No offense,” he added, leaning over to smirk at Finnick. 

“None taken,” Finnick chimed back, getting his side of the Twelve console online, while in the corner of his eye, Haymitch glanced at Chaff. 

“Got started early with the liquor, did you?” he asked with a strange kind of uncertainty in his voice. The stench of Chaff’s alcohol breath was so strong that it even reached Finnick, who felt Haymitch stiffening uncomfortably next to him, as if stopping himself from leaning away. The motion made Finnick look up in sudden concern. 

Chaff raised his eyebrows. “And that’s new how?”

Haymitch gave him a tense shrug. “Never noticed before,” he muttered without looking at his friend and reached for his headset. 

When Finnick flashed a look at his face, he was busy logging in on his console in that careful way that most of them had, of people who hadn’t grown up with computers, pointedly focused. 

“You ready?” he said in a low voice, wondering if it would be too awkward to offer changing seats; Haymitch had always sat next to Eleven, and of course, Chaff was his friend.

“No,” Haymitch replied, exhaling a small breath. “Here’s hoping it’ll be quick.”

Nodding at that, Finnick refocused on the task at hand. The bloodbath would be on in five, the tributes long seen off to the secret location of this year’s arena, and he couldn’t say he disagreed with the sentiment. It had been a long Training Week, another client every night for him. So Haymitch had mostly handled their tributes on his own although he wasn’t _supposed_ to have to do that, not if anybody in the Capitol really gave a shit. He’d also waded through a sea of reporters who cared none about their kids, but wanted to know everything about his struggle with addiction. Finnick didn’t know what drained the other man more – prostituting his personal life in this new way or coaching his tributes with a marketing plan in mind that already planned for their probable deaths. And Finnick tried hard to not think of Caramel at that, one soul who’d apparently already fallen through a marketing strategy’s gaps. He’d spent all week trying not to think of Caramel.

_“I told her not to cry when she goes down,”_ Haymitch had said to Finnick just yesterday, after Aster had asked him in her strange, disconnected way what would help Twelve most, apart from victory. Victory, she’d derisively said as if it didn’t concern her as a person, was out of question anyway. It figured, Finnick had tiredly thought, now that they’d unexpectedly gotten a tribute with the smarts to strategize, that that tribute would be some sort of sociopath. She was just strange, impossible to read. _“Make a splash. Be extraordinary. Make them remember you long after you’re dead, and don’t beg or cry when you die. That’s what I said.”_

Finnick looked up at his screen, where their boy, Rodey Wills was waiting in his tube, ashen, trying so hard not to shake. Underfed, of course, not at all looking thirteen. They’d be incredibly lucky, if that boy made it through his first night. It was hard to even look at him; he was just a scared kid who’d soaked everything they’d told him up out of sheer desperation, without any of the brains or maturity to do anything with the information.

Then the anthem sounded and the lights were dimmed, and Finnick stopped himself from reaching for Haymitch’s hand and squeezing it when Templesmith’s voice started booming through Central with the countdown, although chances were that nobody would have noticed that he did it. Everybody’s eyes were on the main screen, the camera following the Ten male, as the predecessor of last year’s victor, racing up his tube, then panning out to encompass all of the grounds.

The arena looked… very much like a garbage dump. 

Finnick wasn’t the only one in Mentor Central who exclaimed a sound of disgust at the sheer implications of that, the bacteria and the mutts; the Gamesmakers remained ever creative. 

The Cornucopia was towering on a pile of what appeared to be rusty parts of dismantled cars. The tributes were perched on smaller, ramshackle metal piles, and everything around them looked like a swamp of tattered garbage bags and steaming rot and rotten food, swimming in a greasy substance, browns and yellows and greys. The camera moved on greedily to display it all, and Finnick could perfectly picture the delightedly repulsed “Eww!” running through the Capitol this second. 

There were small lakes between the hilly piles that looked deep, but no telling if any water would be drinkable. Little fires were burning here and there like baby geysers, emanating green and blue flames. Every now and then, there was movement, something slithering and wet, hopefully edible, probably snakes. The stench had to be unbearable; the small girl from Three had started heaving the moment she’d emerged. 

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Chaff exclaimed.

“Thought you’d been complaining that the lakes and forests favor Four and Seven,” Haymitch wryly said, though his hand had grabbed the armrest of his chair. 

“While the trash arena’s gonna favor my district how?” Chaff sounded like his friend had lost his mind. 

Haymitch broke into a slightly unhinged laugh. 

Chaff abruptly got up.

“Getting a drink,” he announced, while Templesmith was reaching “twenty, nineteen.” He pointed his finger at Seeder. “I figure he should make it for ten minutes, but holler if he, you know, is backstabbed by a sewage monster and dies.” And off he’d gone, not swaying in the slightest despite his apparent blood alcohol level. Finnick wondered if he just couldn’t bear to see. 

Forcing his eyes away from the other victor, he said, “They’re going to catch diseases in there.” Worriedly, he started scanning the field for real, the breeding ground of diseases that it had to be. He didn’t know much about that, Effie would have to research it for them. He thought that most bacteria and parasites could probably wait until whoever won had made it out of the arena, but if anything in there infected an open wound, that tribute likely wouldn’t survive. 

Haymitch nodded abruptly, focusing on the screen, outwardly calm now. “Let’s see what the food and water situation’s like before we start prioritizing.” 

Rodey was trembling like a leaf, dark skin almost yellow from nerves, and Finnick was suddenly scared that he’d freeze at the go. Some kids snapped out of it and grew stronger for the experience, but Rodey was just shaking now, eyes white from panic. “Seven,” Templesmith was counting, “Six.”

“Good girl, that’s it, check for the mutts,” Haymitch was muttering at Aster, whose face was as infuriatingly detached as it had been at her interview, but whose eyes were fixed on the swamp now, scanning for movement underneath. 

Then the gong went off, Templesmith announced the launch of the 73rd Hunger Games of Panem, and the first of the Careers had already armed themselves with metal rods and shards from the trash on their way to the Cornucopia, heavy boots sinking deeply into the slurry. 

Aster was off, inexpertly jumping from heap to heap but avoiding the soft dirt, and since nobody knew how to move fast in the waste, everybody focused on themselves instead of her while she scrambled away. 

“No, no, don’t do that, don’t do that to me,” Finnick was whispering, because Rodey really was just standing there, eyes wildly scanning the struggling and screaming children. He wasn’t even checking behind himself, in the direction he was supposed to run, and that would just be worse, if he didn’t just die on the platform but actually ran along with the other kids into the fight because he couldn’t think. 

“Breathe.” Haymitch’s hand was on his shoulder, digging in too hard. 

The male and female from Two were running the show at the Cornucopia; there was no ounce of creativity in their clubs bashing in heads and their hands grabbing the screaming smallest ones. 

Johanna’s boy was down when the One male broke his neck, and the Four’s male Career was trying to reach the Three female for that easy kill but the Two female beat him to it, punching her down and suffocating her in the mud. 

Then Finnick could hear Seeder clucking her tongue, at the edge of his awareness, and yeah, that was the Eleven male down, simultaneously pierced by the spear of Mags’ girl and the throwing star of the One female, who had defiantly wiped her dirty hand across her cheek as if to say she didn’t care about diminishing her beauty for a Games.

The scream of the dying boy so close to him seemed to shake Rodey awake, who suddenly was looking around with wide open eyes and then sucked in a breath, scrambling off his pile, stumbling on his way away from the fight and almost falling but not even noticing the spear hitting the platform a second after he slid down. That would have been a kill for Mags’ girl, too, a tiny and grim Career with the traditional spear. 

“Thirteen’s ashes,” Finnick breathed, daring to cover his eyes with his hand for a second. 

There would never be anything worse than this, having to watch the bloodbath slaughter of children at the Games and being unable to get involved.

That was when Chaff returned with a bottle in hand, half-empty already, giving the Eleven screen one look and saying to Seeder, “Is he dead? See, I knew he was a goner. Why didn’t you call? I missed it all.”

Then he grabbed an empty bottle from next to his console, hurling it at the far wall and screaming, “ _Fuck_!” 

Various mentors down the console row flinched. 

Chaff slumped down in his chair. 

There was a tense moment of pause.

Leaning towards Haymitch, Chaff pointed at the screen with the bottle. “Thought he probably wouldn’t make it, but he was a smart kid, too smart to stay an apple picker. He’d have gotten out of the bloodbath, I’d have found him some sponsors for sure.” 

“We still have the girl,” Seeder almost sing-songed it, under her breath. Her and Chaff’s uneasy mentoring truce wasn’t a secret in Central. “Let’s focus on her.” 

“I tried to feed that girl a chicken leg and she asked me what it was,” Chaff told Haymitch.

Then he toasted the screen, raising his voice. “Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever up your fucking ass! 

“Some Gamesmaker better get executed for this literally shitty idea,” he muttered darkly into his drink. 

He definitely hadn’t been that drunk last year. 

Then again, there hadn’t been any hope for his tributes last year. 

The bloodbath raged on. Seven’s second kid fell to the axe of the Two male, who gave the weapon another test twirl, then threw it away and reached for a club again, having earned free choice of weapon. Aster was scrambling onto a plateau, the noises of the battle quieting behind her the further she got away, throwing looks over her shoulder and hurrying on. Rodey still hadn’t thought to get his feet out of the swamp, not having gotten that far, but if there were mutts underneath, they left him be in this early stage of the Games. 

Finnick’s head snapped around when Chaff’s hand appeared at the edge of his vision, playfully placing a small flask in front of Haymitch with a soft click, metal on metal. 

His vision stuttered.

“Just on the slim chance that we’d need to celebrate the misery, I’ve brought you a special treat from back home,” Chaff drawled. “The wife says hi and good bingeing.”

Finnick saw that Haymitch’s eyes fell on the bottle and just stayed there, never moving away, while the screams and the battle noises of the bloodbath raged on. 

Well shit. 

_So what, he’ll tell him no,_ Finnick blankly thought. 

Then, he remembered that he’d never seen Haymitch declining a drink, because Finnick had made all the liquor disappear, from the house, from the Victory Tour celebration, and Haymitch hadn’t even gone to the Hob without him for the longest time and what if Haymitch just didn’t know _how_?

Haymitch’s eyes were still on the bottle, his sobriety suddenly this uneasy truce where he didn’t seek it out as long as there wasn’t any alcohol right in his face. 

He’d never wanted to stop in the first place. 

A ball of fear was tightening in Finnick’s stomach.

Leaning onto his armrest, Chaff was eyeing Haymitch with a curious, indulgent look on his face that said, why yes, of course he’d known exactly what Haymitch had needed right now, but hey, no big deal, because that was what friends were for here in Mentor Central, where the world was glum.

Finnick forced himself to move, not listening - _mom, dad, KeanuPerriCoral…_ and Haymitch was on that list now, _too._ He just felt like he’d puke.

He snatched the flask away from under Haymitch’s nose, a loose and unthreatening motion, like he behaved when there was a camera on his face. 

“And the newbie doesn’t get a welcome drink?” he said. “I’m hurt.” 

Taking a token sip – the booze was vile and hurt his throat – he screwed on the lid and put it away into a pocket of his jacket, from where it was already scheduled to be thrown in the trash, violently. It wasn’t a subtle move, he knew, but he wasn’t caring one lick. 

Chaff gave him the side-eye. “Oh come on,” he said, shaking his head and turning to focus on Seeder’s tribute, who was hiding behind a pile not far from the fight. 

Haymitch was coming out of it more slowly. 

He cleared his throat, relaxing limb by limb. 

“Not doing that anymore, you know,” he said to Chaff, just loud enough for Finnick to catch it. There was an unsure note in his voice, as if he didn’t quite know the right words. It was the opposite of what he sounded like when he talked alcoholism on the television. _It was hard. Of course, it was hard. There was the liquor and that’s what you do with it, you drink it._ “Haven’t been drinking all year.”

“ _Right,_ ” Chaff said and snorted at him.

* * *

The Games just went downhill from there, transforming into the worst experience Finnick had had since he’d won.

A lot of victors had addictions. Finnick, hailing from a professionalized district with a tight, supportive, stable group of victors, knew that intellectually, although it was treated as somewhat of a taboo subject. Victors treasured the right to privacy, and if one of them chose to play pretend, that was perfectly within his or her right. Every year, Mentor Central turned into a cage, the air dense from the strain of keeping those panic attacks, those trigger reactions at bay. If Six’s Manoli dissolved into a giggle fit at her console, they averted their eyes; if Johanna had noticed that young Kyle Akumi’s pupils were too wide these days, even she knew to point it out to Finnick in quiet when only he could hear.

Everybody was busy with themselves during the Games, desperately keeping up that frail façade of calm, and nobody had time or cause to notice the bottle that often dangled from Chaff’s hand in those days, Chaff who didn’t slur or sway, most of the time, Chaff who was a companionable, mellow drunk, who teased new victors mercilessly, then offered them a shoulder to cry on and a drink. Much like Mags, Chaff was a gift to all of them; he made things so much easier to bear.

Finnick remembered how Chaff had lounged in a chair on Flickerman’s show a year ago, where he’d shaken his head sadly and cleverly drawn in the audience by saying, if he hadn’t seen Haymitch’s addiction coming, nobody else could be blamed. He hadn’t wanted to see, he’d said. It was his fault; he’d failed as a friend. 

What made Finnick angriest about that now was that he’d tricked himself into believing that a thing said on the air could have had any meaning. That Chaff had cared in the same way Finnick had. He didn’t know Chaff well beyond their brief acquaintance during last year’s Games but Chaff was Haymitch’s friend, Haymitch who’d barely known what to do when Mags declared him part of the family and who needed some friends, and he just felt _betrayed_ on behalf of the implicit trust he’d thought they all shared.

Haymitch didn’t have to deal with alcohol, that was the deal. 

It wasn’t a matter of not being ‘strong enough,’ they didn’t have that luxury – it was a matter of what _worked._

“What did you think you were doing in there?”

He’d followed Chaff out of Central, both Twelve tributes safe for now, and from the look Haymitch threw him when he got up right after Chaff, he’d known exactly what Finnick was up to. He’d looked ashen for a moment, and then he hadn’t moved to stop him, anyway, as if he knew what could happen and hated it, but he, too, knew he had to rely on what worked best.

The hallway was empty, no Peacekeepers or escorts in sight, so Finnick grabbed Chaff by one bulky, muscular shoulder, twisting the smaller man around and pushing him against the wall. 

Something dangerous flashed in Chaff’s eyes, just for the blink of an eye. Then it was gone and he went limp, slumping against the wall and raising his hands in mock surrender. You survived the Games by being very dangerous indeed, and afterwards, you stayed alive by never being dangerous again. 

“Whoa, kiddo,” Chaff said. “What’s that for?”

“Are you kidding?” Finnick said, disbelieving, throwing a furtive look over his shoulder but no, still nobody close by who could hear, apart from the bugs in the walls. But there was nothing to be done about those. 

“Sure, kid, I joke, because the Games are so much _fun._ ” 

“I can’t believe that you just did that in there,” Finnick said. “What were you thinking, offering him drinks like that? You know people will pay for it if he has a relapse. _He_ will pay.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t the startled expression on Chaff’s face before he regrouped and snorted, in a way that somehow highlighted the thirty years he had on Finnick, quips forgotten. 

“Ah, Odair, the fuck. Come on. I know you’re new to our side of Central, kid, but me and Haymitch have been at this for a good long while; none of that just now was new.”

“Of course it’s new!” Finnick lowered his voice, barely containing a hiss. “I know you didn’t get all the details last year, but can’t you see he’s _sober_ now? He’s _better_ , better than he’s been since I’ve known him. Even if Snow wouldn’t start killing…” His voice flipped, and he pressed his eyes shut while he took a breath, forcing himself to stay outwardly calm. “Even if Snow wouldn’t force him to stay sober, you still can’t want him to go _back_ to how he was, he almost _died_ that day. He would have died if he hadn’t been found.” 

Chaff rolled his eyes at him in a fond way, reaching out – to give him a friendly pat on the arm maybe – then deciding otherwise when he saw Finnick shift away from the motion, shrugging and lowering his hand again. 

He waited a moment as if to make sure Finnick wouldn’t hyperventilate or lash out, with the exact same kind of casual patience Finnick had grown used to from Haymitch; it was so familiar it was startling, making him wonder who had taught the two of them that patience. _Caramel Doll._ It came to him in a flash, leaving him unbalanced and irrationally edgy.

Then Chaff said, “Right.” He waited another moment, eyeing Finnick critically. “Kiddo. Odair. Not gonna treat you like a child here, you’ve seen too much shit go down for that. I know it all sucks, alright? It always sucks. First day’s hard on everybody every time. But this is business as usual, it’s just new to you right now, that’s all. Just, this ain’t the Career districts anymore, alright? We handle matters differently in Five to Twelve. Not as shiny and proper, but it’s all that we’ve got. You get wasted in Central all you want, nobody cares. Haymitch’s good, he’s been doing this for a real long time now. He’s a real smart guy. I ain’t gonna offer him a drink if I think he’ll go on camera too drunk. And he’s a grown man, anyway, he knows when to stop.” 

There would always be a part of Finnick that clung to believing that crap like that only ever happened in the Capitol media, on the television, a part that would always be stumped when he heard it coming out of a real person’s mouth. He stared at Chaff. 

“What has ever given you the impression that Haymitch can _stop_?” he said, helplessly. 

“He’s gotta make those decisions for himself,” Chaff patiently rephrased. 

“He’s an _addict_. He _can’t stop._ Didn’t you _see_ him? Do you think it’s normal that it’s me talking to you instead of him? This isn’t the kind of thing where you test yourself to see how much you can take.”

Chaff smirked at him. “You gonna tell me next that it’s a _disease_?”

“I’m going to tell you that you have to stop making things worse!” Finnick snapped, hot anger starting to boil in his gut. It just simmered there, and it was so foreign that he barely even noticed it as his. “You think he’d let me have this conversation for him if he knew how to have it himself? He needs our _help_ , he needs _us_ to help him through. Do you believe for one second that Snow isn’t already aware of what just went down in there?” Oh, he could just _picture_ Snow leaning back in the chair behind his desk looking pleased. Snow liked to act like he needed them to behave themselves the way he wanted it, but Finnick didn’t doubt that he’d delight in their failure just the same because for him, it was another game, and Finnick’s whole skin prickled tightly at the thought. This had long stopped being just about saving his family, even before he and Haymitch had started that thing between them, it was about saving them _and Haymitch_ , at once, because Haymitch wouldn’t recover from failure. He wouldn’t be able to live with it if he got more people killed. And then, Finnick would have failed _too._ “People will die if he drinks anything.”

But Chaff was still not getting it; Finnick could see in his face that he didn’t get a word of what Finnick had just said. 

“You,” Chaff told him with a level gaze, “shouldn’t believe everything you see on the television.” He got more comfortable, lounging against the wall like it was his, shrugging. “Drinking’s just a decision that we make. It’s just a couple of bottles during Games to ease him through, it won’t do any harm.” 

And that, Finnick realized suddenly, was the problem. He didn’t know where that sudden insight was from, but suddenly, it became clear. Haymitch couldn’t be a drunk. Haymitch couldn’t be unable to stop once he started. Because if he was, Chaff would have to face up to the fact that maybe he himself was unable to stop, as well. 

Chaff had a wife back home and suddenly, Finnick wondered how much he drank when he was home with her, what measures he took to make sure she wouldn’t find out. What lies he told himself when he hid those bottles, going about his day. As long as Chaff didn’t admit to any of that – and he wouldn’t, not to Finnick, maybe not even to Haymitch – Finnick had no way of convincing him that Haymitch needed his help. 

It was the Capitol all over again, walls closing in around him wherever he turned because he was just helpless all over again, no solution available. _Caramel was right,_ he thought, almost panicked. _Everybody is too busy thinking of themselves to care about anything but themselves._ Chaff was Haymitch’s friend, but it didn’t matter. Haymitch would die. Finnick’s family would die, they would all _die._

_You’re not being rational._

Finnick wasn’t listening. He was scrambling to cling to that sense of control he’d been feeling during those recent months in Twelve. Sudden, terrifying clarity was shaping itself into the remembered image of Caramel in the Four apartments, coldly advising him, those Games statistics blaring in the background: _”Fuck it. Fuck all of it.”_. 

The fear of losing Haymitch and all the happiness he’d given him clinging to him like a vice, he suddenly knew exactly what he could do, what he was capable of doing to protect the people he cared about, to protect himself. And if Haymitch fell through the cracks for Chaff, well then, Chaff could damn well fall through the cracks for Finnick. 

The problem was the solution too. 

Finnick felt that he was pulling himself up, letting go of the air of harmlessness that he’d learned to project even before his Games because he was tall and muscular and everybody else was not. 

It was obvious that Chaff had noticed the subtle change, because his eyes flickered across Finnick and he tensed up when he tried to retreat to gain reach, but couldn’t because there was the wall in his back. 

Finnick had never in his life struggled harder to pull a punch, clenching and unclenching his fist so hard that his fingernails hurt his palm. He’d never been a violent person, despite how great he had felt wielding his trident – like a god. It would have been so easy if this could have been solved with brawn. But life in Panem was never as simple as that. Nothing about victory was ever _clean._

Desperation was a rotting, ugly thing, like they all had become by this point; maybe this year’s arena was the most honest of all. 

“I’m only going to explain this once,” Finnick heard himself say in a voice that wasn’t quite his own. _Snow taught me that. He gave me that voice._ “You’re going to stay away. Haymitch won’t drink even a sip because of you. If you see him with alcohol, you take it away from him. You won’t offer it. You won’t drink when he can see. You’ll switch seats with Seeder and you won’t so much as turn towards him when there’s alcohol on your breath.” 

Chaff’s expression was still slack, a careful mask that said he didn’t care, the one he donned on the television. Finnick thought if he could have recalled what Chaff had looked like during his Games, when he lost his hand, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what Chaff had looked like then, too. _Oh look, it’s missing. How about that._

Chaff was all too aware of every shift of Finnick’s body, Finnick could see it in his eyes. 

“And if I don’t,” the older victor said, “then what?”

Finnick breathed. 

“I’ll have the media come down on you so hard that you won’t have time to blink,” he said. “They’d go wild about any story that has me at the center. If they think you’re too boring to warrant a feature, I’ll go and fuck the Chief of Public Affairs on the backseat of her car to make her do it. I’ll tell her you and your drinking need some saving, too. I’ll tell them living with Haymitch has taught me how to see the signs, and how worried I am about you, my dear, poor, disfigured friend.” He paused for a moment, breathing, contemplating, terribly calm. “I can make sure that you’ll never bring a tribute home again, if you and your wife survive me.” 

His trident was at home in Twelve, hanging on the wall across from his bed to remind him of his killing skills. But he hadn’t won his Games because of that trident. It had been stupid to think that his trident had had anything to do with victory. 

A tilt of his head, a smile, some skin, cameras going off and gifts falling out of the sky. 

And that had been before he even had been old enough to offer sex where people could see. 

If this were a Games, Chaff would have just realized that he’d lost. 

“You’re a bastard,” he breathed. 

“Leave him alone,” Finnick said. 

There were things that victors, mentors didn’t do. There were lines they didn’t cross. They were tied together by a bond that nobody else in Panem could hope to understand. 

But they were also people ready to cross lines to survive. 

“Fuck you,” Chaff said and Finnick stepped aside, watching him stalk down the hallway, out of sight.

He wondered what Haymitch would say, whether he’d lost Haymitch just now. 

But when he joined Haymitch at the Twelve console some minutes later, Haymitch just looked at him for a while until he turned to the screen again without a word.

Finnick thought he should feel bad about himself, like something inside of him should just have broken; he should feel like something was gone. 

But he didn’t.

He just, in a terrible way, felt more like he knew what he was.

* * *

The next time Finnick and Chaff met, Chaff had switched seats with Seeder who rarely addressed anybody, lost in her own world when she stared at the screen and prayed for her tribute to a god whose existence she wasn’t permitted to acknowledge. If Chaff talked at all, it was to Cooper at the Ten console or clipped tech talk with Seeder sometimes drifting over. Finnick had a feeling he was often very drunk, but then Seeder’s girl died too and the two of them vanished from Central entirely, leaving one more empty console behind. 

Finnick thought that surely Haymitch had had a conversation with his friend himself but he didn’t offer, he never said anything whatsoever about what had transpired, and, unable to find the words to talk about it himself, Finnick suddenly felt so terribly tired. He just wanted the Games to end so that they could go home. 

Instead, it dragged on and on for a never-ending eighteen days when the children just refused to crumble, despite the arena having been designed to poison them. 

Finnick saw clients, every day. _Clients,_ he tried to remind himself a little more fiercely every time and at every touch, not patrons, and _appointments_ , not dates. _Rape,_ he tried to tell himself and shuddered at the thought. _It’s rape._ Never had that awareness hovered so close to the surface before. It hurt, suddenly, hands on his chest and his cock when he just wanted them to stop. People telling him what to do and expecting him to look good and make sounds, when he just wanted to be anywhere else, back in the arena if need be. He entertained fantasies, not of just dying but of dissolving in acid, of vanishing out of existence, nothing left to even bury. It had been a mistake, he worried, learning what it could be like, unable to forget now that he knew. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it would sound like if he said no. But he couldn’t say no and the weeks dragged on, and he tried not to be so relieved every time another child died, one step closer to the end. 

Haymitch, too was looking more drawn every passing day, glued to his console even when Finnick took over after appointments. It seemed twenty years of seeing it through to the end were hard to shake. But Haymitch didn’t want to talk about it; all his energy was tied up by his refusal to break down. Finnick himself was too exhausted to talk. They waved it off, telling themselves that it was just what Games were like; this was just what happened. Rodey had died late on Day Three after the Careers found him and let him run away for sport, leaving him to bleed out in a puddle of dirt with a cut throat. 

Aster made it through most of the Games, easily reaching Final Eight. Barely anybody noticed though. She stole food from the Five female but she didn’t use the opportunity to kill. She polled as uninspiring, the commentators couldn’t settle on a story for her, and the camera always cut away from her too fast. “Wait for it,” Finnick promised their sponsors on Days Five, Seven, Nine, in his most velvet voice, “she’s doing exactly as she was told.” They sent her water and food but she still hollowed out from the same disease that most of the tributes had caught. She captured a snake, roasted it on a geyser, and she ran from the Careers. Unable to hope it would end well, Finnick asked Haymitch for his thoughts once, but Haymitch just stared at the screen for a while, then shook his head. She had sponsors because Finnick smiled at them and because some people just didn’t know how to gamble. 

The Capitol loved the arena. It was everything they were not. Finnick slept with people wearing stylized mud streaks on their cheeks, who mixed dimmed greys and browns to contrast with fiery Capitol neon, chasing this year’s greens out of the stores. 

His clients were older than they used to be, men and women rich enough to never care about propriety, people who kept special rooms with special toys for special whores. Collectors. They sold him alongside Gloss one time and he thought that was worst of all, having to touch somebody who didn’t want him to. 

Despite the fact that he and Haymitch barely felt like touching anymore, rumors were making the round about them in Central. But Finnick couldn’t make himself smile when he saw Beetee clapping Haymitch on the back, he couldn’t smirk about Cashmere and Cordelia at the One console thinking that the whole idea of the two of them was too bizarre to believe, of Johanna snickering.

The night of Day Ten, Finnick returned to the Twelve quarters at dawn with his shirt clinging to his chest from sweat and body fluids that mostly weren’t his.

Haymitch was waiting for him in the brightly lit lounge of the Twelve floor, a tired figure in an armchair underneath the window. He looked too tired. 

“Is she dead?” Finnick asked, although she hadn’t been on the tiny Games screen in his limousine, asleep and covered in grime. 

Haymitch shook his head. “Just waiting up for you,” he said. “You alright?”

“In a moment like this, the answer to that question will never be yes,” Finnick said, peeling out of that hideous shirt and throwing it into a corner. “I hate this life.” 

_I hope you picked that up with your bugs loud and clear._

“You should be in bed,” he added, pausing to take in Haymitch, his sunken face, the phantom withdrawal visible in the tremor of his hands that had started two days ago and just hadn’t stopped. 

“Doubt I could sleep,” Haymitch said. 

Finnick wanted to cross the space between them and hug him then, actually hug like they barely ever did and comfort both Haymitch and himself, but they shouldn’t get that close to each other while he was stinking of sex.

* * *

Fifteen days into the Games, Aster leveled a metal pole out of a garbage pile, destroying a construction that effectively amounted to a dam. It was a bit like Annie Cresta’s Games except no accident and more terrible. Four of the five remaining Careers drowned in the manure or were buried underneath debris. The sole survivor, the beautifully blonde One female, made quick work of Aster once she’d made it to the shore. Aster never batted an eyelash. Her face, unreadable even in death, looked faintly curious when the throwing star bashed in her skull.

She might have thought she was dead either way in a field of Careers, but it didn’t seem like she’d even cared about victory. She’d done what Haymitch had advised her to do, she’d gone and made a splash. 

“Told you so,” Finnick purred at all the sponsors who hadn’t given them any money, sucking a cocktail cherry in his mouth. Aster made _10 Best Moments Of The Games_ ; parts of the recap would be dedicated to her villainy tale, plotting against the Careers. _The Cornucopia_ published a two-page analysis of her Games, reading meanings into every move she’d made. 

“Yeah, of course that was the plan all along, I mean, obviously,” Haymitch told the reporters right after she died. “We knew not to expect too much, it just takes time until the sponsors start trusting that you know what you’re doing. Can’t blame them for that. But that was the strategy. I think it was a good one. A bit of luck and, yeah, we’d have brought this one home. We ain’t complaining. It was a first try at a new thing. Still fine-tuning stuff.” 

“I supposed we’ve used up that ruse,” Finnick added, quirking his lips at one of the reporters, who blushed a crimson red. “We won’t get the cameras to ignore our tributes that easily again in future Games.” 

Eventually, Aster’s killer, eighteen-year-old Timber Doyle from District One was crowned the victor of the 73rd Hunger Games. Once the grime was washed off her face and golden hair and they put her in a queen’s white gown, a young woman of striking beauty emerged from the arena like a fairytale swan. She was tall and pale and graceful, and Finnick tried to not look at her at all. She was from One, he reminded himself, convincing himself that made it all better. In One, all tributes knew what to expect before they volunteered. 

Or they thought that they knew, anyway. 

“Guess we can go places with that,” muttered Haymitch, when all was said and done, clapping Finnick on the shoulder on the way to the train, then letting go again as if he’d been burned. It had been a Games; every year, the Games surprised Finnick anew with how much they destroyed. 

What Haymitch really meant and what Finnick heard was instead, _Another one dead. Another one we failed._

And what he heard also was, _I can’t stand this anymore. I need to run away and forget what it’s like for a year._

He could still feel the touch of his clients – his rapists – on his skin. He needed to go home, too. He needed to try and forget what kind of person the Games had managed to make him, this time around.


	18. Chapter 17: A Sweet Delusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Bring him over,” Finnick said. “Both of the boys, and their friends. An hour a day, after school. You do survival. I can teach them how to kill.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to give a heads-up on the warnings: The next two chapters will be including some depictions and discussion of anorexia and exercise addiction, which I hadn't previously listed in the tags. This is an issue that has been hovering at the edge of Finnick's awareness all through the story, and what with my outline leaving me some wiggling ground, the story has decided that it really wants to go there some more now. I'm very sorry if this is inconveniencing anybody. Leave me a comment or approach me on LJ or Tumblr, where I go by the same name, if you need further information to make an informed decision about reading on.

### Chapter 17: A Sweet Delusion

They returned to an untypical, oppressive summer humidity having befallen Twelve, and a district population that had reaffirmed their belief that nothing would change in the Games, their children would keep dying. Mayor Undersee shook Finnick and Haymitch’s hands upon their return as he was supposed to, face tired and blank, vanishing right after his carefully scripted welcome speech that probably wouldn’t be aired in any case. He had a daughter mid-Reaping age, Finnick knew. 

Haymitch looked twice his age when he put a hand on Finnick’s back and told him to get the visit with the tributes’ parents over with, but they did it anyway, knowing they had failed those people, and nothing could be changed. When Finnick gave his tribute’s parents his condolences after the 71st Games in Four, Niko’s mother had taken his hand in both of hers and told him she knew there was nothing more he could have done, as if he was the one who needed the comfort. Finnick had told her that her son was a hero, whose name would be carved into the Monument of Sacrifice – not because she didn’t know that, but because she’d deserved to hear it a lot of times. Aster’s father, Mr. Cagney, the candlemaker, laughed harshly in his face when he tried to say his daughter had been special and had had every right to keep hoping, and that he was sorry. Mrs. Wills, Rodey’s mother actually shut the door in their faces; she looked so bony, like the walking dead, she must have starved herself for years to feed her child. Neither Rodey nor Aster had had siblings; this Games had destroyed two families completely. 

Once they made it back home to the Village, safe in their knowledge that the Games were done with for another year at least, Haymitch brushed Finnick’s hand off his shoulder and pressed his lips together, saying, “Don’t” and “Need to catch up on some sleep” and “Don’t come over this week.” Before Finnick could react, he’d vanished into his house. The next day, Noreen knocked at his door to inform him that Mr. Abernathy was either sick or had just finally gone nuts, because as far as she could tell, he’d only gotten up from bed to lock himself in the bathroom every now and then. But when Finnick knocked at his door, Haymitch just gave him a categorical, “I’m fine” though he clearly was anything but and eventually, “I’m fucking exhausted, alright?” Keeping a nervous eye on it, Finnick kept his distance. He was used to Haymitch’s insomnia. He didn’t know what to do with this, and it made him nervous – what it meant, what it meant about them. 

It was hard to hyper-focus on Haymitch, though, when facing Haymitch would have meant answering questions about himself that Finnick didn’t want to, not when he himself had returned from the Capitol with an over-excess of energy that he didn’t seem to be able to shake, an anxiety that said he should burn it with workouts and runs and a need to just drill more spears into things, to keep moving until he couldn’t. But it never seemed to be enough. So he told himself that Haymitch would be alright, that they would be alright, that Haymitch knew what was best for him, and he was only complying. Finnick just knew that he needed to do _something_ but didn’t know what that should be, and no matter how much his muscles were aching and the soles of his feet burning, something inside of him kept pushing on. He went on more workouts. He grew obsessed with what he ate in a way that scared him, because Haymitch had started skipping their shared meals, so suddenly he didn’t feel eyes on him anymore that had forced him to look at his own behavior from the outside. It was stupid, he knew Haymitch didn’t care about Finnick’s diet either way; Haymitch had defied the Capitol in parts by not caring about his own. Yet now, he found himself keeping book on how much sugar he put in his coffee so that he could work it off the next day; but more running meant more exhaustion meant more coffee, and he just couldn’t stand the stuff. So the more of it he drank, the more sugar it was, the more he ran.

Gale Hawthorne had shown up the day they returned, bearing offerings of overpriced berries and meat. Finnick was so desperate for a sparring partner, for something to _do_ , that he pretty much begged the young man to take him outside the fence and show him around the forest, offering a lesson in hand-to-hand or with a spear in return. Surprisingly, Gale said yes, even before Finnick had to resort to payment. 

They never ventured into Gale’s hunting grounds, never to the places with the berries and the mushrooms or Gale’s lake, avoiding the places, Finnick thought, that would have been Katniss Everdeen’s secrets to share. Gale explained to him how to build a goosling trap, a basic one that would hardly allow Finnick to start rivaling Gale’s hunting endeavor, but intricate in its mechanisms the likes of which Finnick hadn’t encountered in the Games. It was a little insight into the foreign world of Twelve, how other skills had survived here, and he greedily soaked it all up. 

They climbed a tree, Finnick following Gale’s lead on where to put his hands and feet, a high one big enough to carry both their weight, and Finnick reached for higher branches even when Gale started warning him off, until he could make out the sorry expanse of the district in the distance underneath, trees and mountains as far as the eye could see. It should have made feel him better, but it didn’t. 

They found an even clearing at the mines, empty after the late-shifters had left for the day, where Finnick introduced Gale to the concept of a kata, explaining to him why that was a good method of learning a move. He threw him a dozen times or so and taught him how to fall, then how to recreate the attack on his own. Hand-to-hand wasn’t Finnick’s strongest discipline; he’d always felt most at home with a trident and a net, weapons that allowed him to explore his reach, and he’d specialized early on. But Calina and Shania taught close combat as a matter of course, and naturally athletic as he was, he’d fared well in school with even the classes that weren’t for him. There was a reason Calina had singled him out for an exotic weapon, making him stick out in case he’d want to volunteer after he turned eighteen. 

Gale was as good as eighteen. The next Reaping would be his last, and Finnick didn’t doubt that volunteering for glory had never even once occurred to him in his life. He hadn’t agreed to this lesson because that was subject to change. His eyes narrow, he filed away everything Finnick said, all there and focused and primed; it was easy to see how this boy, in a district that offered barely any books, just crappy schooling preparing for work at the mines, had decided to pour his all into hunting. It wasn’t just that he was desperate to feed his family. It was also that his mind was too big for this place. Twelve had made him sharp and practical and clear-eyed, and Finnick knew that Gale’s choice to be here had a purpose other than learning close combat skills he’d never need. 

“You’re good at that,” Gale managed, breathing hard, picking himself up from the grass where he’d landed on his back with a sound thud. “Not just doing it. Teaching it, too. You know how you’ve got to explain.”

“Stop dropping your shoulder when you charge from the left. I’m not a deer, I can see you telegraph the move,” Finnick said, Gale already circling him again. Finnick let him come, knowing there was no comparing their level of skill, but also knowing that an opponent only needed to get one little thing right for a combatant to be dead. That was the difference between martial arts for sports and in the Games. “I told you I’d be teaching a class if I were home. And not just basic Games prep. The volunteers, too. And it’s nice,” he added, eyes all on Gale, stepping out of the way when Gale feigned an attack – from the right. “You get tired of using this stuff only when you’re trying to survive.”

“Doesn’t mean you’d automatically be good at it,” Gale said and charged again, twisting Finnick’s arm this time until Finnick called stop, and showed him where to go from there. 

It was a pleasure to teach Gale, who was almost a Career, sharp and dangerous and quick on the uptake. It didn’t matter much if you chased deer or other tributes, both taught you to hurt and kill, and something in the young man’s eyes told Finnick how aware he was of that. 

“I’m still not getting it.” Sweat running down his forehead, Gale had little breath to waste but forced the words out anyway, picking himself up after another throw. He was a quick learner, but this was a first lesson, and he wasn’t _that_ quick. “You slept your way across the screen this Games. What do you care about getting them home?”

“Because the one thing doesn’t have anything to do with the other,” Finnick said. 

They stared at each other for a moment, both of their shirts clinging to their torsos from sweat, both of them trying to stop their lungs from clamping down around too little air to breathe. A part of Finnick’s attention remained on Gale’s stance, used to Shania’s trash-talk distractions, used to not just assuming that a fight was over. But, wide-eyed from the adrenaline of the workout, Gale just looked him up and down. 

He could have given him a hint, Finnick supposed, all over again. They’d reached this point once before. He couldn’t make himself tell him outright, he couldn’t say, _“Maybe it isn’t what it seems.”_ but he could make himself say something that felt smaller, put Gale’s mind to work and pray. 

Or he could just put it to rest and resolve that he didn’t care, and either Gale would deal with it or he would not. The only reason he cared what Gale thought anyway was because he thought Gale was right when he called him a slut. 

Gale wrinkled his forehead, but not in distaste, just working. 

Finnick took a breath, straightening up with a smirk. “But you didn’t come here with me because you want to know why I do things with my private parts.”

It was a stalemate, and Gale was still looking him over, but it was clear that their session was finished. There wouldn’t be any more sparring today. The poacher was letting go of his thighs that he’d been clenching with his hands, loosening the muscles in his shoulders. 

“I have a brother,” he said, voice carrying clearly across the empty panorama of the mining grounds, death traps of a different kind. “Rory. He’s turning twelve. If he gets reaped next year, I can step in and volunteer. After that, I’m too old, I’ll be working in the mines. Then Vick will come off age. And Posy, she’s four. It won’t stop.”

Finnick knew that Gale had siblings, had known they were younger than him, but it wasn’t like Gale to give away that much at once. Doing the math, he knew Gale would be thirty-two when Posy was out of danger, and at thirty-two, most people from the Seam already had Reaping-age children of their own. Gale wasn’t getting away from the Games; he was old enough to think about marrying one day, about starting a family, and it would never end. 

Finnick waited, knowing his eyes were dark. He had a feeling that he knew where this would go. He knew Gale, who had been starving and whose family had been starving, and so he’d gone and learned to break the law.

“I can take Rory to the forest,” Gale said. “Teach him snares and traps and knives. He’s not strong enough for a bow. But he’s lean. He could do a spear.”

“Bring him over,” Finnick said. “Both of the boys, and their friends. An hour a day, after school. You do survival. I can teach them how to kill.” The girl was too young yet. 

Gale was narrowing his eyes again. “It’s forbidden, though, training for the Games.”

“Sport’s good for your health, didn’t you know?” Finnick said with a harsh laugh, not even trying to sound ironic. He knew the propaganda from Four, he knew the excuses used in One and Two, and nothing about this would ever be funny. “You make sure some kids attend. I make sure the Peacekeepers don’t intervene. 

“We’ll look into feeding them up. Starved kids can’t fight.”

Still looking at each other, still slightly out of breath, Finnick thought this should be it. This should be when his chest came loose, when he found that thing he had been reaching for. When he stopped feeling like dirt, because he couldn’t brush off the hands he still felt touching him everywhere. When everything returned back to where it belonged, at least far enough for him to sleep in peace. 

It didn’t, of course.

* * *

Mayor Undersee’s house was perched into a far corner of the town square, the tallest of merchant homes with an additional floor overlooking the businesses but otherwise only betraying the wealth of its inhabitants with the carefully polished doorknob, the freshly painted fence – providing small jobs for the poor. It was only inside in the parlor that Finnick detected signs of real money, the fine heavy dark-wood shelves designed to last, the covers of the armchairs recently renewed – most importantly, the broad television screen mounted on the wall across the couch. 

The Undersee girl had offered him tea, then vanished in the guts of the house, and there was no sign to be seen of the mayor’s wife, who Finnick was told had been nursing a migraine all through the Games month, thus currently couldn’t greet guests. 

“Frankly, this district could do with a gym,” Finnick said, ignoring the tea. His eyes were on Undersee, who had taken a seat at the table across from him with the air of a man about to talk business. Of course, this wasn’t a social call, but Undersee didn’t know that yet, though maybe dealing with the Four victor was business to him on principle. “The sports opportunities here are wretched. I like to work out, and I wouldn’t mind the company. And I love kids. Hate that I don’t have any myself,” he added as an afterthought, like dainty sprinkles spread across a cake. Though Undersee only raised an eyebrow at him, waiting. “It would be a small endeavor, of course, but you know how those things can suddenly grow. Just a small group, kids age ten to, oh, age eighteen. I know one or two older children who would help, just for the love of sport, of course, not for money. One or two hours a day after school, four times a week or so, and I’d feed them a meal after and make sure they get home safe.”

The mayor was nodding along in thought, not agreeing, just signaling that he could follow, his eyes on his own cup of tea which he was stirring with great care, although unlike Finnick, he hadn’t dumped four spoons of sugar into it. It was astonishing how little he reminded Finnick of Snow, although Finnick had come here begging. But it was impossible picturing himself getting on his knees and sucking him off, not because Undersee couldn’t theoretically order him to do that, but because it just seemed unthinkable here, in this room. 

Finnick forbade his mind to go down that route, though, reminded of the Games again. 

Undersee’s eyes had fallen on Finnick’s fingers, restlessly playing with the edge of his cup. Finnick made himself stop. 

“That’s a commendable effort,” the mayor eventually said. Finnick knew that it was just a platitude so far. “Sports are valued highly in the society of Panem, after all. Just look at how it has been built around a sports event for children.” He raised his eyes to look Finnick in the eye then, and Finnick made a point of holding his gaze. This parlor was used for business affairs. He wondered how many bugs were hidden in here. “Though you understand that all our efforts here in Twelve are to provide the Capitol with coal. That is where our focus should lie. How do you envision dealing with parents who want their children to focus on their education for the mines, rather than on a hobby? A child might, after all, come to dream of a career in sports that it can’t have.”

_The parents of this district will gut you if you talk their children into volunteering at the Games, and so will I._

“The children would absolutely require a parental permit to attend in the first place,” Finnick said. 

Undersee exclaimed an affirmative grunt. 

“You might run into trouble with Head Peacekeeper Cray,” he said. “There are laws in this district which your endeavor might bend. Mass congregation. Government-approved education. Technically speaking, your ‘gym’ would be a school.”

Finnick took a breath. 

“And that’s why I’m here,” he said. “If I wanted to start a business, I would have to ask you for a permit. This isn’t a business, but I still am going to need your support. I need you to talk to Mr. Cray for me. I need your weight to convince them that a gym in Twelve wouldn’t endanger the… the district security. It would aid in the entertainment of the Capitol. We might even get to reenact some Games, at our gym. Just for fun.”

He paused. 

“If you make sure I’m allowed to teach the children whose parents would want them to learn how to compete,” he said, picking each of his words with care, “then maybe I can show one or two of them the joy of winning in a competition.”

“Can you, though?” Undersee said. 

All the mayor had to do was take that step and defend their version of the truth until the Peacekeepers, the Capitol caved. Only three districts had tried before, but each of them had succeeded. After all, the Capitol wanted to be entertained.

It was just a matter of trusting Finnick that he really wanted to try. Because they all wanted to bring those children home. They all knew it couldn’t _harm_ them to be more prepared, they all knew victors meant more _food._ One victor would save dozens of lives. All they needed was people who were willing to try taking that step. People who could. Before Finnick, the district had never had a victor who could. 

“Yes,” Finnick said. “I know I can.”

“Very well,” Mayor Undersee said.

* * *

Finnick paused on the way home, throwing a glance up to the first floor of Haymitch’s house, to where Haymitch would be asleep although it was noon. Later on, he would go over and place a plate with food on his bedside table, since Noreen shouldn’t have to do it on her own all the time, and he would or wouldn’t eat it once he awoke. 

There was no movement in the window, of course, so Finnick told himself there wasn’t a reason to wake Haymitch, making himself walk on.

* * *

Gale’s siblings showed up with their wide eyes and their frail frames that would flag them as dead meat at a Games, their big brother hovering behind them, so Finnick went to grab some spears. Vick was ten and Rory was twelve and they were delightful boys, sharp like Gale but each in different ways. Finnick got Rory started with a beginner’s kata and patiently corrected Vick on how to hold a knife, his backyard transformed into a makeshift training ring. Three days later, Rory brought his two best friends and Vick had brought the kid next door and Gale’s nod said the parents were okay with that. Nobody trusted Finnick with their children. But Gale was there, and a lot of people trusted him. When two more hollow-eyed, starved fourteen-year-old twin girls showed up, Finnick sensed they probably mostly came for the food. Fallon sent one of her cousins, two weeks in, and in her case, it had nothing to do with trusting Gale. They taught the older kids to carve their own spears so that they would know how to maintain their weaponry and to stock up on training supplies. Children brought kitchen knives and improvised clubs and learned to throw rocks systematically; they made a game out of identifying ever new arena props that could be made into a weapon.

As long as the children filled Finnick’s days, making him consider how to make a sparring session safe, how to organize a class, discussing with Gale how to sneak the children past the Peacekeepers for forest excursions, he didn’t have to think about anything else. He considered taking them out at night, so they’d learn to navigate nature in the dark. He considered teaching them to use ice and snow to their advantage once winter came, how to fight on wet, muddy autumn soil before that. He considered sending for Games tapes, teaching the oldest how to play the crowds as well as strategy; his head exploded with the possibilities of what he could do. 

The Seam watched on from the sidelines, warily, waiting for all of it to explode or to just stop again. Whispers followed Finnick through the Hob every time he bought another knife, another set of darts, few of them kind, most of them scared. It was only every now and then that somebody gave him a cautiously acknowledging nod. 

Finnick was quietly advising Gale on how to supervise the twins during their first couple of stick spearing sessions when a tall young child appeared in the yard, looking suspicious of the other children and lost. Vick stuck his tongue out at her and she wrinkled her nose defensively. Finnick excused himself from Gale when he saw her.

“Hello Aleese.” He smiled. “You want to join in?”

The girl he’d talked to on the Meadow in the months after his arrival in Twelve, when nobody else would dare look at him, still was impossibly tall and impossibly skinny, dark hair stringy on dark skin. He could take her along on a run every couple of days, he thought. Legs like hers were meant for endurance, and you needed to be caught before you could be killed. 

Aleese peeked past him at the other children. She had to have turned thirteen by now. “Can I bring my brother, too?” she said, drawing each word out. “He’s seven. He’s sick again. I’m not gonna leave him alone.”

“He could learn by watching us for now,” Finnick said. Kids were kids. He’d want to join in eventually. And gather some strength from their food, meanwhile. 

Finnick had always been good with children, good at memorizing names quickly and learning their skills. Children grew up with the Games; they understood them better than their parents, who had learned to tell themselves lies about how it would keep happening to different people. Talent or no talent, starving or not, they took to their mock knives and their mock spears like to a prosthetic for a missing limb; they were too young to understand why it felt right to be prepared, but it still made them sleep better at night to know what might be coming for them. Mey and Lilian, the twins had quickly started helping him and Gale out watching the younger ones, and one day, Fallon’s cousin Kean showed up with a big dusty tome entitled _Plants of North America: A Comprehensive Wilderness Survival Guide_ , a treasure from before the Dark Days preserved in an attic. 

Finnick reminded himself that each of these children could get reaped any year, angrily working even harder. They would be reaped and they would likely die, but maybe not. He refused to think of Raif and Bee. He refused to think of Rodey, almost freezing on the platform, and of Aster making her splash and not crying when she went down. He didn’t think of Niko, who’d been able to beat anybody in District Four with his fighting sticks, who’d never missed a meal in his life and who’d come in third. He thought of victory, of odds. That was all he could afford to consider. Bee had made Final Eight, and Aster and Niko had made Final Four, and just before he left the Capitol, a comedy group had premiered a skit wherein Twelve sneaked about in the background, secretly successful while everybody watched the Careers.

“You wanted sugar in this, right?” Gale said, emerging from Finnick’s kitchen door, carefully carrying the two first cups of coffee that he’d ever brewed. 

“Yes,” Finnick said. “A lot of it.”

He’d go out on another run tonight, once the children were home. 

If Haymitch had chosen to peek out of his upstairs window right this second, he could have watched them working and sparring and preparing in the backyard; but Finnick knew, if he would turn around and look up to it now, there’d still be nothing to see.

* * *

“Finnick, this is Primrose,” Gale said, putting his hands on the shoulders of the girl. “Her friends call her Prim. She’s eleven, she’ll be Reaping age next Games, and she thinks she won’t be any good at fighting but I think she’s wrong. She knows a lot about plants already, and she’s a very smart girl.”

“It’s nice to be meeting you, Prim,” Finnick said. “I’m sure if we get you started slowly, we’ll find the right weapon for you.” 

He appraised the timid girl with her blond hair and her big eyes, looking for similarities to the merchant children he knew – the Mellark boys, Aster, the Undersee girl – but finding none. He thought it was a good thing, that Gale had managed to rope his first merchant child into this. It would be good for people to see that even the merchies were preparing. Maybe she’d bring friends.

Prim politely offered him her hand. 

“It’s very nice of you to have me, Mr. Odair,” she said, and Finnick thought of Flickerman when he shook it, how he’d immediately swoon about that gesture. Here was a child that would poll well. Then she added with a trembling firmness in her voice, “I don’t want to learn how to shoot with a bow. But I think I want to learn to throw knives. I have very good aim.” 

She had the same look in her eyes that said she’d refuse to go down without resistance and sleep without nightmares at night, kind, quiet girl or not. 

Finnick gave her a smile. “Gale and I don’t know much about that, I’m afraid, but Gale is great with hunting knives, and I bet we can figure it out between the three of us. Have you ever thrown darts?” If she was good with plants, they’d have to talk poisons first thing. Ralda Cavalera from Six had won that way, and he had a faint memory telling him poisoned darts had been featured in Haymitch’s Games as well. Maybe that was a thing they could make typical for Twelve. 

Finnick made the mistake of trusting that Gale wouldn’t just bring a child without making absolutely sure that he could; he made the mistake of forgetting that Gale had a tendency of making up his mind and then just following through. 

So the third day Prim came to practice, pulling up her skirt in determination, a small, real, well-oiled throwing knife in hand that Finnick later gathered she had stolen from her sister’s stash, Katniss Everdeen showed up with blazing eyes.

* * *

“Prim!” 

The girl had shown up in the pathway to the yard, her voice cutting clearly through the clattering of sticks on sticks, which died down immediately when the children turned and stared. Her silhouette illuminated against the sun, it took Finnick a moment to recognize the slender hunter’s frame. Then she stalked over, and he made out Katniss’ trademark braid. She wasn’t dressed in her oversized hunting jacket, just in her school clothes, but the look she shot Gale on her way was murderous and betrayed. 

“ _Prim_!” Katniss exclaimed. In somebody older, it would have been exasperated. “Put that thing down and step away from that girl!” 

It was an outright family spat after that, with Katniss reaching for her sister’s shoulders to drag her away from her sparring partner, Mey, but a bristling Prim slipping out of her grasp in a move that spoke of sisterly familiarity, and Finnick thought, _well shit_. Prim was shy, but she had a tendency to speak up when need be and from what Gale had said about her helping her mom at work, a backbone of steel. 

“I’m not going home!” she shouted, protectively clasping her mock knife. “I’m going to be Reaping age next year! I have to learn how to protect myself!”

Finnick had seen fear disguised as anger too often to not recognize it now in Katniss. “Is that what he told you?” she said, pointing at Gale. “He doesn’t get to make the decisions about you.” The other children had dropped their mock weapons entirely, retreating cautiously and throwing furtive looks at Finnick. Gale opened his mouth with a frown, but Kat’s fury was all on Prim again. “Stop that now. You don’t have to learn anything like that! You don’t _have_ to! I’m going to _protect_ you from that, you’re not even going to take extra tesserae!” 

Prim swallowed hard. “I could still be reaped!” she said. “The girl this year didn’t take extras either. She was a merchie. She thought she was safe! She killed people and she still died! I want to learn to _defend_ myself…”

“Listen, Kat…” Gale said and Kat was fully on him again, twirling around. 

“Don’t talk to me! Ever again!” she hissed and he raised his hands in surrender, retreating a step with his eyebrows raised. 

“How about we talk this out…” Finnick proclaimed calmly, hopefully loud enough to penetrate, but the Everdeen girl apparently had decided that his presence wasn’t all that relevant to the situation. 

“I told you that you don’t have to be scared of that,” she told her sister, calmer now, but tears shining in her eyes. 

Finnick had a distinct feeling that Prim had probably considered having this conversation with her sister at home, before she decided to join the Games training group, and then she’d chickened out. And likely not so much because of Katniss’ fury, but because of those tears.

Though he had to give it to Prim, now she pulled herself up, all five feet of her, stomping her foot. “I want to learn for myself!” she said. “I’m not you. It’s not about you! You can’t protect me from the Games. You never teach me anything, you only say I don’t have to care! But I do, I’m scared and you say I’m too small. But I won’t be too small if they reap me next year! Gale says you’re never too young to prepare!” 

“Gale isn’t your _brother_!”

“She’s right, Kat,” Gale said, voice grim. “You can’t protect her forever.” 

_The earlier she starts, the better she will be prepared in the end._ Finnick wasn’t stupid enough to add that aloud. Then he shook his head.

“Okay,” he said very loudly, very reasonably, stepping between the two sisters with his hands raised. “Obviously there was some kind of misunderstanding, so let’s talk it out. Everybody calm down, all three of you.” He waited for a moment to make sure he had everybody’s attention. A group of kids was a reasonably easy thing to take charge of compared to getting stuck in Mentor Central with a fuming Chaff. “Prim, you’re going to sit this round out. Mey, go over and help Larkspur with those darts. Gale is going to be supervising you all for a minute. Everybody keep working on what you were doing.” 

It wasn’t always easy keeping a lid on over a dozen children of different ages who didn’t necessarily like each other all that much, but everybody had been sufficiently intimidated by Katniss, the girl they probably looked up to because she was only fifteen and still providing the district with food; he’d seen the same hero worship in their eyes for Gale. Gale himself hesitated now, then gave Finnick a small nod; he would have his talk with Katniss later, in private. Aleese was eyeing Katniss and Finnick in turns, as if contemplating whether she should jump to his defense. The twins had inched closer to each other, the flinch they were frozen in telling a whole story of their family life on its own. 

“Let’s talk,” Finnick addressed Katniss, who shot him an annoyed look when he turned to walk down the driveway for privacy. 

“You’re going home,” she told Prim, who pressed her lips together, but Katniss added, “Right now” and an angry childlike grimace covered Prim’s face, close to tears, but she started picking up her things silently, ducking her head. Finnick suddenly wondered who acted as caretaker in that family and if maybe Gale had really talked to Prim’s mother, except Mrs. Everdeen wasn’t the person who made the decisions about Prim. 

He felt a pang of sympathy for Katniss, who was fifteen and providing for her family and who still had no real power to protect her sister, not even as much power as Finnick, who also had a family to protect, but who at least knew exactly what he had to do to keep them safe. He could be reasonably sure that Coral wouldn’t get reaped. The siblings of victors never got reaped, as long as the Capitol still needed the victors, as long as the victors behaved. He tried not to think of Johanna’s little sister, who had paid the price for Johanna’s rebellion, who had made it just long enough for that flicker of hope to appear in Jo’s eyes. Everything about the Reaping was rigged. 

“I’m sorry you found out this way,” he said when they reached the front yard, two long rows of empty victors’ houses sprawling out in front of them, exposing the horror of the Games in Twelve for everybody to see. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking down at Kat uneasily. “I wasn’t aware that you didn’t know Prim had joined. That’s not how this is supposed to work. She’s a very smart, talented girl. She’s very scared of the Games. That’s why she wants to be here.”

Kat, so much smaller than him but almost as old in her own way, pressed her lips together. “She doesn’t have a reason to be scared,” she said. She was just a kid, too, but Finnick knew he’d find years of bow string callouses on her hands, real muscle in her upper arms, and those eyes were used to narrowing on game. Katniss Everdeen was fifteen, and she’d learned to shoot squirrels square in the eye so that something would be left to sell. It was just that taking care of a person was an even harder job than that. “It’s my job to take care of her.”

“So what are you going to do when she’s reaped, volunteer?” Finnick challenged her and stopped her when she opened her mouth angrily, although her eyes said she was trying to not think of it. She was trying very hard not to ever think about that ever. “Alright, so you volunteer. You have three Reapings left to go, right, so what after that? Who’s going to volunteer for Prim then? If she starts working on it now, she’ll stand an even better chance at fifteen, when she’s on her own. And there’s no harm in it. If she’s never reaped, all the better…”

“Of course there’s harm in it!” Kat interrupted him, furious again. She pointed at the backyard. “That’s not Prim. That’s not what she’s like at all. She’s kind and… and gentle, she doesn’t _have_ to be like that. She wants to be a _healer._ ”

“She’s got aim,” Finnick countered, unfeeling. “She’ll have precision aim with her knives in three years if she keeps at it like that. If you’re the one teaching her, even faster than that. She’s smart. She’s got plenty of survival skill talents.”

“She likes _animals_ ,” Kat shouted at him; it was a complete non sequitur, but Finnick still knew it was, at the same time, the only real argument. “I bought her a _goat_ , she makes cheese, she’s got that _stupid_ cat and she _cried_ when I started to drown him in a bucket to be rid…”

“She’s scared she’s going to _die_ ,” Finnick interrupted her harshly, thinking of Chaff, thinking of Mags, thinking of everybody’s refusal to deal with what was too hard to handle. How everything was too fucking hard to handle for _him_ , but at least he was trying. “She knows you can’t protect her. Nobody can protect her. All she wants is a sense it won’t be hopeless, if it’s her. Nobody in this fucking district has as much as a sense that they could do anything.” 

He was breathing hard, suddenly, as if he’d run, not all around the district, but maybe a sprint. Katniss Everdeen was fifteen, and he shouldn’t feel like this from talking to just another kid, but he did, and his skin was crawling again. One of the Six victors, Terence, who was a doctor, he’d told him once that those nightmares and triggers the victors had, those ‘post-traumatic reactions,’ were caused, specifically, by the terror of feeling helpless – by going in there and knowing exactly you’d die and knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it. It killed him, knowing that this _whole district_ felt like this. _Every child_ in this district thought of the Games _knowing_ that it would kill them and _knowing_ that it could be them. He could barely bear thinking about it. 

_“So what would you do if a tribute came at you like that?”_ he’d sternly asked Vick, an hour before, when Aleese had managed to throw him from behind. The ten-year-old boy had laughed, mud smears on his face. _“I’d stab her with my knife from my boot!”_

Katniss Everdeen shouldn’t exist, Vick Hawthorne shouldn’t exist, _Finnick_ shouldn’t exist. But they all still did and the Games still did and there was absolutely nothing either one of them could do about it. Aleese’s brother Mitchy was filling out now that Finnick slipped him an apple sometimes, cheerfully babbling at his sister about spears and blades. Lilian learned that her startle reflex was something she could _use._ These kids were learning something, horrible things, things that allowed them to _be._

Katniss was staring at him with wide eyes, as if this was an arena, as if she’d stumbled into a clearing and found herself surrounded by Careers. That had happened to Haymitch, twenty years back. They’d replayed it some this Games, during features, safer to show than his final battle, and he’d had that same startled look on his face that said he’d fight to his teeth no matter what but he was still dead. 

Gale and Katniss both did that thing where they swore up and down they’d volunteer for their siblings if they were reaped, but Finnick thought of Keanu, his own brother, the terror on his face when Finnick’s name was called, and he thought of how long nobody had volunteered in Twelve. It was a sweet delusion, but a delusion nonetheless. 

He didn’t give an inch when he looked down at the girl. 

“You could help,” he said. “Gale and I can’t teach those kids how to shoot with a bow. We don’t even have a bow. Gale says you’re great with throwing knives, too. If you’re killed by a bear in the forest tomorrow, your knowledge dies along with you. Your district won’t have it anymore. You could help, and we might bring one of them home.”

For a second, there was a flicker of hesitation in Katniss’ eyes, a flicker that said she hated feeling helpless, too. A flicker that said, she went into the forest and fired off those arrows, but she still equated the Games with death, she didn’t think herself different from anybody else. She was proud, like everybody in Twelve was proud. She hated for her district to keep losing, the humiliation of it all. She hated for everything to be the way it was. 

Then it vanished, like a window blind rattling into place, and what was left was a resolution that she wouldn’t think of herself in a Games, she wouldn’t think of her sister in a Games because if she did, the world she knew would break apart. 

“I’m taking Prim home,” she said. “Don’t you dare letting her stay if she shows up at your stupid school again.”

Then she was gone, and that one small thing that she could have improved was gone with her. Finnick looked after her with his hand balled into a fist so tightly that his nails dug into his palm, a white hot piercing of pain. 

_Fuck them all,_ he thought. 

He’d change the odds for them yet.

* * *

August ended and September came, blowing one last wave of heat across the district and leaving red and yellow autumn leaves behind. Finnick had found himself growing leaner, his body expelling the last of what little excess fat it had had to spare, keeping military control over his workouts and food. He felt empty, but didn’t know why. Effie called sometimes, because one of their stylists had suffered a stroke and fallen behind on his plans for next year’s parade costumes. The tinge of blue washed out of Haymitch’s hair, leaving behind more of his natural coal black on each of the rare occasions Finnick got to see him, until no difference was left that he could see. 

It was during a warm evening, the sun setting gradually, the remaining kids throwing long shadows all across the yard. Kean and Rory, who had continued Prim’s probing attempts at throwing knives on their own, were trying to hit the dartboard they had liberated from Swagger’s house, employing the total focus that only children their age mastered. Aleese was crouched next to Mitchy, whispering with him, checking if he was up for the long way home. The twins were bumbling through a kata, as always delaying as long as they could before going home. Gale hadn’t been over this day, having gone to run his traps alongside Katniss for the first time since the fight. 

Finnick’s eyes were on fourteen-year-old Larkspur, because he never let them out of his sight if they were handling a real blade, but he still wanted them to get familiar with them. He was very carefully letting her come at him, correcting her every move. 

Then a door hinge creaked and when he looked up, Haymitch had appeared at the back entrance, surveying the scene for a long, blank moment before he moved to sink down on the stairway, his stealth in startling contrast to his frame. 

Something in Finnick’s chest fluttered. 

He realized, with a pang, that he was missing that man so much that he could barely stand it anymore, hollow without him.

“Again,” he told Larkspur, catching her shoulders and pushing her into her opening stance again without quite looking at her. She was so light, he barely felt her under his hands.

Haymitch observed Rory and Kean for a while, closest to him, narrow eyes taking in their fumbled attempts at gaining accuracy. 

Larkspur came at him again and Finnick stepped out of her path automatically, before he realized that hadn’t been the move they had been working on. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Show me again.”

A couple of minutes passed in silence, and Aleese should have left by now but instead she was still crouching next to her brother, keeping a wary eye on the stranger who shared his name, who’d never shown up here before.

It took a while until Haymitch’s gruff voice rang through the yard. 

“You ain’t gonna hit anything like that with a real knife,” he said. “Gotta throw it from the wrist. It’s got all the wrong balance.” 

This time, Finnick did look up in full and so did Larkspur, freezing in motion. Rory and Kean had still been working on their mock throwing knives, missing the dartboard by full feet. He wondered if it would make sense to hang it lower for the smaller kids, or to use a trunk. 

Haymitch got up. 

“Gimme that.” He snapped his finger at Rory to hand him a real knife, lying discarded in a safe corner. The boy threw his partner a look, then did so, hesitantly, taking a hurried step back when Haymitch impatiently took it from him. Haymitch grimaced, glancing at it, then bent and used his heel and the ledge of the stair to break the handle off in once efficient, forceful move, the sound ringing through the whole yard. He picked it up again, just the blade with its small metal handle left. 

“Now it’s a throwing knife,” he said, pointing it at the boys. 

Taking position in front of the dartboard, he shooed the boys out of the way. 

“Let’s see if I still remember how this works,” he muttered to himself.

* * *

The last of the children were leaving, and Finnick answered Aleese’s wave with his own when she and Mitchy vanished out of sight. He knew one of the younger Peacekeepers, red-haired Darius, had taken to late night patrols in the Seam with his partner on the days they trained, seeing that the children really got home safe. 

Finnick had sat down next to Haymitch on the stairs, and none of them spoke, for a stretch. The air had cooled off, and he could feel the heat coming off Haymitch, this solid and familiar body so close by. It was a little strange, this new thing that he had been building and then Haymitch in the middle. 

“So I leave you alone for one fucking month,” Haymitch eventually said, his disbelieving gesture encompassing everything. 

It was meant as a quip, but Finnick still couldn’t help but wince. 

Of course, he’d fucked it up again. Of course, he had. 

“I guess I should have asked.”

“Like the obvious answer of ‘are you crazy’ would have stopped you,” Haymitch huffed, not sounding terribly put out. “Like that would have actually put it out of your mind.”

Then he was silent for a moment, before he said, gruffly, “Sometimes you just have to sit this shit out, you know.” And he wasn’t talking about the training sessions anymore, he was apologizing for not having been there. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. 

“I’m sorry,” he started saying himself, “I’m sorry I…”

“Oh shove it,” Haymitch said, and Finnick snorted a laugh.

Then he shuddered, taking in the yard, the dartboard, that battle kindergarten that he and Gale were manufacturing out of thin air and he thought, abruptly, that it was really amazing, that they could barely speak for over a month and still sit here, and all the good parts about that hadn’t changed. 

“Do you ever have the feeling…” Finnick paused, wetting his lips. “Do you ever have a feeling that you just have to keep _doing_ things, that you have to keep _acting_ or you’ll… you’ll forget that you can?”

In the corner of his eye, Haymitch scratched his chin. 

“I think I’d forgotten that in the first place,” he said. 

It suddenly occurred to Finnick that Haymitch had been sober for over a year, facing that shitty reality they lived in every day and during this Games and he was still around. He had no idea how he did it. He didn’t think he could do it himself, if he ever found his drug.

Though then, he looked across the yard and he thought, maybe he had. 

His whole body felt a little different to him now, more like a weapon, maybe a blade.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he said, and Haymitch said, quietly, “Yeah,” both conveying _It’s alright_ and _So am I_.

Another moment passed, and Finnick wondered if it would be like this every year, after every Games. 

He suddenly was thinking of Caramel Doll, back home in his cottage in Four, what he had done when he came home. He really didn’t know anything about that man. 

He was thinking of Chaff returning to Eleven, if maybe he had kissed his wife, if he had visited old Pots who hadn’t mentored in so long, if he’d been drunk when he did. If he’d hidden that fact. 

He wondered if Timber Doyle of One had started sleeping through the night without any sleeping pills yet. 

The candlemaker’s store was still closed, door barricaded and window blinds shut. 

Something bumped against his hand and Finnick realized he’d reached out to grasp Haymitch’s, who didn’t startle but just interlaced their fingers and held on. 

“Feeling better?” Haymitch asked. 

Finnick shook his head. Those hands were still crawling all over his skin, like ants. He was afraid they always would. 

Haymitch gave an affirmative hum. 

Finnick grabbed his hand a little tighter. 

If they sat here for a while holding onto each other, he thought, and if he could fall asleep next to Haymitch tonight, maybe that urge to keep moving would quiet down for a while, just long enough to catch some rest.


	19. Chapter 18: Secrets Shared And Secrets Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well, I care,” Finnick said. “I think it’s important that I know what you want.”_

### Chapter 18: Secrets Shared And Secrets Kept

It was early in December when Effie called Haymitch but happened to reach Finnick, preparing dinner for the two of them. Fortunately, Effie started prattling at him obliviously, never wondering why neither of them had picked up the phone half an hour ago. 

“I,” her chirpy voice announced, “am having the most _terrific_ news. A very lucky district has been cleared to hire two new _stylists_!” 

It turned out that their firmly mediocre stylist couple had finally decided to retire, now that their health wasn’t up anymore to the stress of inflicting makeup on two doomed little children once a year. 

“Of course, we cannot expect a miracle,” Effie warned, “a district such as Twelve will traditionally be receiving applications by recent fashion school graduates only, but I have already seen some applicants’ portfolios and I think we will have quite the broad array of choices, even though they will all be from beginners. I’m sure their skill will just mature over time. A first selection is already on its way to you. Tell me what you think! This is a big, big, big opportunity on our path to success!”

The applications arrived after a week. While Haymitch gave them a distasteful look and muttered that “as long as I can find excuses” would be the appropriate timeframe to delay looking at them, Finnick shook the folders out of the envelope on his way back into the house and sifted through them for a first cursory look at the future of Twelve in the Games. Everything could rely on a good stylist who supported their strategy for them; the districts with gifted stylists willing to collaborate with the mentors had a huge advantage. 

He found his eyes glued to a parade costume draft by one Bonbon Canella, who had forgone the use of fabrics altogether to paint her models in delicate smears of coal dust patterns, covered only by strategically placed smoky black plastic. It was horrible and modernist and beautiful, and imagining it on twelve- or thirteen- or fourteen-year-old, starving bodies, imagining it on his own at that age, painfully twisted something in Finnick’s guts.

* * *

He woke up that night, startled and shaking, still starkly feeling those hands on his chest, on his ass and _inside of him_ , muffling his last breathless “no” into the pillow. Everything prickled on his skin as if electricity was crackling in the air. Finnick thought he was possibly crying, but arousal was burning all through him, and his hand was clutching his cock even as he was curling into himself, wanting to be gone but especially, wanting that desire to be gone. It took no more than one, two harsh, perfunctory strokes until he was coming, shaking as he did, sobbing while he emptied himself into the sheets. 

He hadn’t had one of these dreams in months. It was _unfair_. That was all that he had time to think before sheets rustled and Haymitch turned around with a sleepy, muttered, “You alright?” and it hit him that he hadn’t been alone. 

He hadn’t been alone and Haymitch would _find out_ , like Finnick had feared all along. 

Rational thought made way for panic. When Haymitch reached out, his hand grazing Finnick’s shoulder, he flinched away so hard that he hit the bedpost, the bed creaking loudly under his weight. 

They’d kept the ceiling lights turned on for the night like always, the soft shadows covering absolutely nothing. 

“Shit, Finnick,” Haymitch was saying somewhere, suddenly much more awake, the bed groaning again when he sat up abruptly. “Calm down. What’s going on?”

It usually was Haymitch who startled awake from nightmares, relying on Finnick to talk him out of it and to remind him where he was. It rarely ever was Finnick. If it was Finnick, it didn’t take long for him to come out of it, and he always knew that it had only been a dream. The trident on the wall across the room usually served to calm him down.

Now, everything happened so fast that he couldn’t even process it, and he wasn’t looking at the trident. He was breathing too hard, hyperventilating already, blindly holding onto the bedpost, needing to suck in more air. His chest seemed to be bursting. Sweat formed on his forehead. Haymitch was so close and Finnick was _reeking_ of sex. 

_I was talking in my sleep._ He got off on rape and Haymitch _knew_. 

“I…” he tried to manage, but then he was leaning over the edge of the bed and everything that had been in his stomach hit the ground. 

He was shaking and vomiting and crying at once. 

Haymitch had somehow gotten out of bed, apparently, because he was standing in front of him now, grimacing and rubbing his face and looking like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. 

“I’m… shit, Finnick… you got to calm down, alright? We’re in your house in District Twelve. It’s gonna be months until you have to go back there. It’s not happening to you now. Shit, you gonna let me touch you? You look like you’re about to fucking burst.”

But Finnick was flinching away again, just at the suggestion that Haymitch might get close to all that proof of what a pervert and a slut he was, sperm all over his fingers, and Haymitch was taking a breath. 

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. You stay put. I’m gonna clean this up. It’s gonna be fine.”

But nothing would be fine again. Finnick was still clutching the bedpost with his one hand, the other, dirty one curled up under the blanket, left alone in the room to his breathing, breathing into his belly, holding it in, exhaling. Instinct kicking in. Breathing like that was like swimming. 

The world calmed down, though clear thought refused to reappear, and that terrible fear clung to him along with the cold sweat. 

Haymitch returned, a bucket and rag in hand.

“I should be doing that,” Finnick managed. Haymitch, getting on his knees next to the mess, snorted at him. 

“It’s this very special victor’s talent I have,” he said. “Cleaning up puke. And it ain’t even the next morning with a hangover right now, so this is like beginners’ class.”

His bizarrely casual tone tore at Finnick’s perception, bullying its way past the panic and the disgust and the fear so sharply that he threatened to shake again. He stared at Haymitch. It occurred to him, for the first time, that Haymitch hadn’t even noticed what had happened. Finnick had said things in his dream, but Haymitch had still been asleep or not known to take them for anything but a nightmare. Finnick still felt hands crawling all over him, the residual arousal at least washed away by the nausea, but Haymitch couldn’t see any of that. 

The stench of vomit covering up any stench of sex. 

Haymitch paused in his work to look up at Finnick, who still hadn’t moved. 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked and Finnick, without missing a beat, breathed “no.” 

He could ask Haymitch to leave the room, and Haymitch would. He could change the sheets and take a shower, he could make every last detail like it had never happened, and Haymitch would acquiesce. He thought it was a nightmare. He’d accept that. He’d accepted anything Finnick decided he needed to do to cope. That was how they did it. 

Haymitch nodded in acknowledgement. Finnick watched him continue his work. 

A strange and ancient fatigue was settling in his bones, forbidding him to get up. 

_A reprieve,_ he thought.

* * *

Autumn passed quickly, and when Finnick started making noise about wanting to sleep in his own room at night, Haymitch never so much as blinked, obviously assuming Finnick was trying to deal with his upcoming return to the Capitol for Wintermas, with Timber Doyle’s upcoming Victory Tour. Finnick didn’t rid him of the notion, although his mind was preoccupied with bigger things. Haymitch would probably have thought it was that Finnick finally had lost interest in him, like Haymitch had always claimed Finnick eventually would, if it weren’t for the fact that they still spent just as much time with each other through the day. But it was his dreams Finnick was aiming to hide. He still wanted to have sex. He _craved_ sex, some days, the safe kind of sex where Haymitch allowed him to keep him at arm’s length all Finnick wanted, where he let Finnick call the shots. Finnick felt guilty about it, guilty about how all of this was about him. Haymitch kept claiming it didn’t matter, joking that he collected all the spoils without any of the work, but Finnick remembered how Haymitch had shut his eyes that one time he’d guided his hand to wrap around both their cocks, Finnick’s hand over his directing their speed, how much he’d enjoyed even that small opportunity to touch Finnick and how quickly he’d come from that. Finnick had enjoyed it, too, the feel of Haymitch’s hand on him there, the two of them rubbing against each other, but he’d felt antsy about it, still. He’d imagined Haymitch taking over and pushing him onto his back, being rough, like the nameless people in his dreams, but it hadn’t worked. It had just made him queasy in a faint, nauseating way. 

He’d expelled it by going on more runs, like he had used to do in that awful time just after the Games, fueling everything into what he ate and how he processed it and how he felt it turning into muscle, into living, breathing danger. Except this time around, Haymitch was right there, instead of licking his wounds holed up in his house, so it didn’t take long for him to notice. 

It was one morning before breakfast, when Haymitch was setting the table while Finnick made coffee, reaching for the sugar pot, and Haymitch’s hand settled onto his wrist. 

“So how much of that stuff will make you run the extra mile tomorrow?” He said it almost like it wasn’t a big deal, except for how he was clearly waiting for an actual reply, his eyes on Finnick’s face. 

Finnick froze. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, eyes on the sugar pot so that he wouldn’t have to look at Haymitch. 

He still remained aware of him in the corner of his eye though, of the way Haymitch was hardening his jaw in hesitation. He looked a little helpless, and it tore at Finnick.

“Yeah, you do,” Haymitch said. “I mean, sure, I don’t know where exactly this is coming from right now. I don’t know what’s different about this Wintermas. But this is getting out of hand. You can’t start doing that once a year, or one day, you won’t be able to stop anymore.” 

Finnick pressed his lips together. “Cherry’s diet plan…”

“…ain’t saying anything about sugar in your coffee, it says eat your greens and see about some red meat once a week.” Haymitch’s voice left no room for arguments. “You’re twenty-four, you’ve got the metabolism of some sort of sports mutt, and the stylists know we’ve got a food shortage in the districts. You couldn’t fuck it up if you tried.” 

Finnick softly exhaled the breath he’d been holding. 

Truth was, he didn’t _want_ it to be a problem. He had enough real problems already. The Victory Tour stop in Twelve would take place in a week. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d done this food thing once before and that it had turned into that terrible trap, where he couldn’t control it anymore. In a corner of his mind, he was afraid of what it meant, of what it did to him, because he knew he couldn’t _not_ notice what he ate and it scared him. But it also felt _good_ , like he was making something happen, and he didn’t want to lose that. 

“You ever throw it up again?” Haymitch quietly said, maybe thinking of Gloss, who hadn’t grown up in a starving district and who did that, probably without feeling quite as shitty about it as an outlier district’s victor would. 

“No,” Finnick said with revulsion, focusing on the Capitol’s emetics that Gloss used for that. 

“Good,” Haymitch breathed. “That’s good. 

“I thought maybe when you didn’t want to stay over anymore at night… never mind.” 

He let go of Finnick’s hand then, leaning back against the kitchen corner as if a little spurt of energy had suddenly drained out of him, and it occurred to Finnick, with a start, that another victor who’d struggled with food had been Ralda Cavalera from Six. She’d been a close friend of Haymitch’s and she’d killed herself just after the 71st Games, when the 72nd had been when Haymitch drank himself into unconsciousness at Reaping Day. She’d poisoned herself with a stew that she’d cooked.

Biting his lip, he suppressed a small whimper when he suddenly felt so bad because this had to have been causing Haymitch so much pain to witness and think about, all because of Finnick. Just because he’d been trying to… he wasn’t even sure, to feel better about himself somehow, something stupid like that.

Haymitch was still looking at him, carefully studying his face. 

He sounded hesitant and concerned when he said, “So how about… how about if three spoonfuls of sugar is okay and four isn’t anymore, you stick with three and don’t run yourself into the ground the next day. That alright?”

“Okay,” Finnick agreed in a quiet voice, hanging his head and admitting defeat. 

Haymitch paused. 

“You know that if there’s anything you need to get out, anything you need to talk about…”

“Okay,” Finnick whispered and Haymitch reached out, muttering, “C’mere” with a lost sigh and drawing him close, hand cupping the back of his neck. “You know you’re not doing anything wrong, right? That’s not what I’m saying.”

Finnick buried his face in the crook of Haymitch’s neck. He thought about how he was this terrible person, how he’d somehow found himself becoming this awful thing that should rightfully flip out of existence, instead of taking up Haymitch’s compassion and time.

* * *

Timber Doyle and her District One entourage breezed into Twelve for their Tour stop and left just as swiftly, paying more attention to the media exposure of the tour than to Haymitch and Finnick, making a statement about what they thought of Twelve’s attempt to become a more serious contender. In retaliation, the two of them gave a courteous little interview about how it never paid to become too complacent, not that they didn’t understand where One was coming from. They reminded the journalists of District Four, of how everybody had thought District Eight would turn into a powerhouse in the early days of the Games, of how nothing about Games success was paved in stone. 

Then, Wintermas came; Finnick spent his prerequisite ten days at the Capitol, full of parties and celebrities and television interviews, a couple of regulars from the days before he’d moved to Twelve. Another terrible appointment alongside Gloss, Gloss’ warm lips wrapped around his cock and Finnick coming down his throat – Finnick involuntarily wondered if he threw that up after, too. Another Wintermas cake waiting for him in his kitchen when he returned, the heat turned up so that a warm house welcomed him home, but Haymitch lounging in his living room this time as if he owned the place, watching nervously while Finnick ate the first piece. Their children wary of him for a couple of days, all of them reminded of what exactly he was, having seen the television coverage. Haymitch resolutely telling them once that Mr. Odair was too sick to teach today and to get over it already. Feeling faintly nauseous from it all. Haymitch telling Gale to suck it up when he made comments, at least once that Finnick heard through the window. 

Haymitch was always there these days when they taught, having resurrected his knife throwing skills and knowing exactly what it was like to be too starved to fight or run or hide. He was uneasy about it some days, Finnick knew, though he thought the problem wasn’t teaching so much as it was interacting with his district, in any way, making commitments in his relationship with the people who’d always been so ready to assume the worst of him. The fact that those interactions evolved around the Hunger Games just made it worse. But he kept attending, no matter Finnick had tried telling him more than once that this would never have to be about Haymitch; he seemed to have decided that he was sick of staying stuck, that he wanted to be going somewhere with his life again. 

It helped that the children, ultimately, didn’t care about either of their reputations. The children who’d joined them were the ones whose parents trusted Gale to pick the right allies, the ones who’d rather prepare their children for the Games than believe in the gossip about the two victors nobody ever talked to directly, anyway. Once or twice, a parent showed up to watch, worn and exhausted after long shifts in the mines, making up their minds for themselves, but none of them withdrew the kids. Some of them, Finnick queasily thought, probably quizzed their children about the victors, how they touched them during lessons. None of those withdrew their children, either. 

Aleese’s little brother Mitchy kept tagging along, playing with a depleted ball in corners and developing an infinite curiosity about his namesake without any of an adult’s sense of self-preservation, having decided in his mind that the shared name made them some kind of relatives; he tried to befriend Haymitch like a puppy would try and befriend the most intimidating member of the pack first. The little boy’s attention bemused the adult Haymitch, Finnick knew, then started making him more nervous by the day when Mitchy, Finnick eventually understood, kept reminding Haymitch of his brother, who had died at that age. One afternoon, he grumpily succumbed to picking Mitchy up, carrying him around propped on his hip, and that experience really freaked him out afterwards, him snapping at Finnick all evening and resorting to a double dose of sleeping pills at night. Then, there was the one night Finnick returned from a late meeting with Gale to find Haymitch crying – and he’d never even once seen Haymitch cry – angrily, sitting at Finnick’s kitchen table, shoulders shaking and wiping away tears in defiance. He told him he needed a drink. He told him his brother’s name had been Jackson, and he’d always piled ridiculous amounts of sentences on top of each other, and he’d wanted to be a fucking Peacekeeper, of all things. He’d thought Peacekeepers were great. Still, Haymitch didn’t bow out of their little school, showing up again the next day, and he allowed Mitchy to follow him around in that grumpy way he had, struggling against that sense of familiarity with the role of big brother that Finnick could sometimes virtually see settling in. Then, out of the blue, he fed Mitchy one of Peeta Mellark’s expansive, colorful cupcakes. Finnick could make out the exact moment when he became Mitchy’s hero, the boy licking frosting off his fingers and answering attentively to questions such as, “So what’s the first thing you do on the platform?” – “I stand very still and don’t explode!” When Finnick opened his mouth to comment on it later, Haymitch said, “Don’t,” followed by, “I mean it, Odair. Don’t” which meant he’d finally realized he was a nice guy at heart but refused to acknowledge it. It probably disturbed him to be coupling the whole business with teaching a little child how to survive in a Games, too. Mostly, it wasn’t a thing to be talked about. Finnick was slowly learning to recognize those things. It was a thing Haymitch needed to deal with on his own. 

Effie was still sending them stylist applications, which kept pouring in because everybody wanted to work at the Games, but nobody of real skill and talent wanted to work for District Twelve. Stylist positions were considered a great honor in the Capitol, they were often for life; nobody wanted to get stuck where they didn’t want to stay. Effie was panicking slowly, since parade costume design processes should be reaching second draft stage, and they weren’t even working on theirs. Finnick and Haymitch agreed that it wouldn’t matter if they ended up with ridiculous costumes that had taken only three months to prepare instead a year. Cherry, unfortunately, had reacted to Finnick’s effort to lure her to Twelve by giving him a startled, disbelieving laugh. She was flattered, she told him as if she was anything but, and she considered Finnick hers for life, but apparently, there were lines. She matched Four’s ocean themes too well to leave, anyway. 

Finnick stopped dreaming altogether in winter and started again in March, when swimming season was still too far away to allow working himself into a frenzy of exhaustion in his favored way; he knew he’d started obsessing about food all over again, struggling when he couldn’t tell Haymitch why. It worried Haymitch, so he tried, reducing the sugar and not overdoing the running, but it was hard. It made him nervous; he tried focusing on the children instead. They’d decided they would take them swimming this summer. Swimming was a necessary basic skill, and Gale knew a pond, closer by, that would take a shorter hike. If Katniss had vetoed showing it to Finnick, he never said. Though Finnick didn’t think Katniss was actually malicious about their project, just protective of the few things that she had any control of. She greeted him with guarded hellos when she saw him in the Hob these days, face blank and head ducked, as if she’d rather not acknowledge his existence, but she also wouldn’t hide. 

The dreams made Finnick restless, anxious, skittish. They at once filled him with an urge to run away and hide and a need to somehow act. 

He made out one day with Haymitch on the bed, Beetee’s gadget buzzing away on a shelf, straddling Haymitch’s lap and asking him, breathlessly, if it was alright, when he’d grabbed his neck a little tighter, drawing them together more roughly, pushing Haymitch against the head rest of the bed. Haymitch was clutching the sheets in an abrupt surge of arousal, and his lidded eyes when he looked at Finnick, inconceivably, said yes even before he did it in words. 

Finnick prepared himself with the oil they used for lube and ripped open one of the condoms he’d brought from the Capitol, pressing his eyes shut and sinking down onto Haymitch’s cock, and the long, throaty, helpless noise Haymitch exclaimed at that would forever be about the most arousing thing Finnick had ever heard. He moved, pulling Haymitch closer so he could rub himself against the other man’s belly, shuddering and trying to chase that ugly, awful thing inside his chest away. 

Haymitch’s hands were on his thighs then, running up and down in that way that usually was okay but not today. Finnick heard himself muttering in a small voice, cheek pressed against cheek, “Don’t, please, don’t do that, please,” and Haymitch breathed, harshly, “Never beg, never do that again, shit, just tell me what you need me to do.” It sent a confusing mix of arousal and anxiety down Finnick’s spine, because he’d _known_ he got off on saying no but this was different, the same and not the same. He came just as hard, though, abruptly, like floating, feeling Haymitch inside of him, all over him, his fingers buried in Haymitch’s hair and his tongue in his mouth, as if they’d crawled into each other. 

They showered together afterwards, then lazed around in bed, never bothering to get dressed again or dry their hair, because it was a Sunday and none of the children would show up. Finnick hadn’t shaved in the morning, stubble scratching when he rubbed his chin; it felt strangely liberating to sometimes decide to just not care. It was early afternoon. He had a run scheduled for before it got dark. He couldn’t cover real distance if he had Aleese in tow, and he’d promised himself to do the whole length of the district at least once a week. But he’d promised Haymitch not to go whenever something nice came up instead, too, so he tried to ignore the little voice in his head nagging at him about it. He preferred huddling under the blanket with Haymitch, he told himself. 

He tried to ignore how he’d sprawled out all over Haymitch’s chest, how that weight had to be pushing him down and how Finnick’s arm, so close to his throat, had to be feeling like this latent threat to his life. Or it would anyway, if Finnick was the one on his back. 

He thought back to the sex they’d just had and a shudder of that mad arousal ran down his spine all over again, until he remembered how he’d pushed Haymitch around, how he’d just taken what he wanted without caring about how maybe that had just been _okay_ for Haymitch to do. He suddenly was sick of it, the whole selfishness of it, and he couldn’t bear it anymore; it was bad enough that he’d built this whole relationship on a lie about himself. 

He pushed himself into a sitting position, blanket sliding off his shoulders. 

“What would you like to do if I wasn’t making the decisions all the time?” he asked, looking down at Haymitch, who was squinting at him, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“What’s that?” he said. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. “When we have sex,” he said. “It’s always about what I want to try. It’s never about you. But there have to be things that you’re really waiting to do.”

“Ah,” Haymitch said. “That conversation again.” He relaxed a fraction. “It’s fine. Stop mother-henning about that. I’m not having any complaints. This is not me inwardly complaining to myself.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s got to be about me all the time. Maybe there’s something that you want that we can still try out. I don’t even know anything about what you want exactly. I mean, I guess I’ve never really asked. But maybe if you tell me, we can figure something out. I want to do something you’d like, too.”

Haymitch shook his head resolutely. “I ain’t gonna push anything on you when…”

“You _wouldn’t_. I want to know. I thought you liked what we did just now, but I don’t know why and now I’m not even sure that you did.”

He shut up abruptly, closing his mouth. Saying that aloud had sent a sudden wave of anxiety through him, but he wasn’t sure if it was the kind that would eventually make him curl into himself from sheer self-loathing, or if it was the kind where he wanted to cry. He felt a lot like crying, these days, though he couldn’t have said why. Everything felt unsteady, as if the ground might start shaking.

It didn’t help his nerves that that statement had done something to Haymitch as well, who was in motion yet again, pulling himself up to prop himself upright against the headboard, blanket securely in his lap. He looked supremely uncomfortable now, glancing at Finnick sideways in an unhappy way. Finnick knew that expression; it was the one that said changing the subject immediately wouldn’t quite be soon enough. Haymitch tended to answer rather a surprising amount of intimate questions, but there still were plenty of things he was loathe to talk about. 

Eventually, Haymitch said very carefully and in a very final way, “Who cares why it worked if it did, huh? That’s what I want to know.” 

“Well, I care,” Finnick said. “I think it’s important that I know what you want.” _I think that’s how normal relationships work,_ he wanted to add self-depreciatively and laugh, but he didn’t want to hurt Haymitch.

“There ain’t a need to be discussing this, though,” Haymitch disagreed immediately. “Things are working out for me, and that’s an awful lot better than I’ve had before. I know it’s the same for you. Wouldn’t want to change something that works.” 

Finnick took a breath. _In and out,_ he told himself. 

“But there are so many things you could want. I don’t know, anything. I mean, I know there are some things that would take time. Most things would, I guess, I mean most things we try do. But maybe if I knew what you’d like me to work up to, maybe if I know in advance I can prepare myself…”

“I’m not gonna have you _prepare yourself_ , alright…”

“I just meant if I’d get used to the idea in my head first, I would…”

“…that’s exactly what you shouldn’t be doing, getting stuck on a thing like it’s the one thing you need to be able to do, I mean, how sick would that be if you fucking _made_ yourself…”

“I don’t think it’s fair if I don’t even know. It’s like I’m fishing in the dark. I could do something wrong all the time, I could trigger you somehow…”

“Not gonna happen that way, I’ve told you that you don’t have to worry about that…”

“I don’t even know if you’d rather be on the bottom or top, if you could choose.” 

Finnick said it with exasperation. His skin was crawling again. Haymitch was shutting him out, and it _hurt,_ except a part of him knew he’d never told Haymitch what he wanted himself. He tried clinging to the belief that this was completely different. Finnick just wanted to make Haymitch happy, both by quizzing him now and by hiding his own secret desires that he dreamt about. 

Haymitch had shut up at that last one. An expression of awkward bemusement had crossed his face, as if he’d never considered that anything like that might be important to Finnick. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. “I think you just don’t want to tell me.”

A pained expression on his face, Haymitch glanced at him warily. 

“Maybe I don’t, yeah,” he eventually said, dropping his gaze. 

Finnick shut his mouth again, caught off guard. 

“Maybe,” Haymitch said, stopping himself and taking a breath, like giving in, changing gears. “Maybe I don’t know what I want, maybe I’m not wanting to put words to it, when I’m not sure why I want it. Shit, this is just real hard, alright? Can we just not have this conversation? Or have it some other day?” 

“You don’t know what you want,” Finnick repeated blandly. 

Haymitch grimaced, painfully awkward, giving Finnick a long suffering look that said he loathed this conversation. He liked giving off a vibe that nothing ever really bothered him, and quite obviously, everything about this was bothering him very intimately. This was not the kind of conversation Haymitch Abernathy had with anybody.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment of waiting for Finnick to say something more that would allow him to change the subject, then corrected himself immediately, “No. No, that’s not, that’s not exactly… Aw shit.” He rubbed his face awkwardly. “I know I want to be here with you, alright? I like the things that we do. It just really ain’t… I’ve never had to do this before. Sure there are things we do and they seem plenty fine to me, and trust me, that’s more than I ever expected from my life to begin with. I mean, you could say I’m just happily riding that wave, alright? I’m assuming I’d know if we hit on something bad, not that I think it’ll happen. I mean, you’re young. You go out and do all that stuff all the time just because it occurs to you that you’d wanna do that now. Me, I just spent the last twenty years letting life pass me by in the hopes that I’d look up one day and find myself dying of old age. It’s all this mash of things in my head. I do things, they feel good, I try to not question it too hard. I like it when you make the calls. It’s good.” 

“You know I want to make you happier than that, right?” Finnick quietly said, relaxing a little. This was unexpected, but maybe he could handle it. 

Haymitch heaved a small sigh. “Yeah. And I promise you that that’s really got nothing to do with anything, alright? It just ain’t that big a deal.” 

“Somebody should make a big deal about what you want.”

“Appreciated,” Haymitch said. He seemed to be regaining some of his equilibrium, getting more agitated. “Listen, I can’t just point at a thing and say, yeah, that’s it, that’s what I need to have done with you for my personal growth or whatever.” 

Finnick reached for one of Haymitch’s hands, taking it between his own hands, playing with it. Haymitch had very strong and sure hands, so that it sometimes was hard to remember a time they had been shaking from phantom withdrawal, how that had made it look as if all of Haymitch was coming apart.

“What about the people you’ve been with before me?” he said cautiously. “I mean, there have been people. There’s been Beetee. And didn’t you say you did it with Gang Chen that one time?” Haymitch had told him that much, some friends-with-benefits thing he’d had going with Beetee for a while when they were younger, some sort of one night stand with District Seven’s Gang, which Finnick had remembered because most victors had never even talked to Gang, who was living at the Capitol. “Maybe you could tell me what you liked doing with Beetee, and with whoever else there was…”

Haymitch gave him a nervous glance, but he still replied. “Just Beetee, mostly, yeah. Never really came up much in my life, apart from what Snow made us do, I mean.” He cleared his voice, contemplating for a moment. “Been a long time ago, though,” he eventually said. “Not sure what that’s got to do with you and me.” 

“Would Beetee be okay with it if you told me about him?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s such a publicity whore.”

Finnick opened and closed his mouth. 

“I’ll never be sure if we’re really talking about the same man,” he said after a moment, and to his surprise, Haymitch replied with a nasty chuckle. He sometimes transformed straight back into an eighteen-year-old when he talked about Beetee and “Conny” – not so often about Chaff, these days. 

“I’ve got all the dirt on Beetee,” Haymitch said. “I could tell you all his secrets.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Finnick said with a weak smirk. 

Then he turned sober again, thinking of Alsey – Haymitch’s girlfriend back when – and Lyra Ingram. Haymitch’s romantic history as far as Finnick knew it had mostly been about women so far, so he was surprised that Haymitch hadn’t listed any. “Has there ever been a girl?”

After the slightest beat of a pause, Haymitch continued as if he’d never heard the question. But suddenly intel was pouring down on Finnick, when he’d been expecting it the least. 

“We didn’t really get around to doing much, Beetee and me, and with Gang neither, I guess. I mean, Beetee’d done it with half of Central at some point in those days, but I was still pretty freaked out about the whole doing it with men thing, and it was more, it wasn’t about that. It was more about reminding myself of what it was supposed to be like. We, uh, there were some handjobs, blowjobs, that kind of thing. I fucked him, once or twice.” 

Finnick blinked. 

“And then Gang, let’s see,” Haymitch was saying, scrunching up his forehead in thought, as if the topic required all his focus, clearly avoiding the other question. “Uh, they’d already sent him to live in the Capitol at that point, you know they had him perform music with that orchestra, but that was long before Johanna won. He’s a good ten years older than me, pretty sure. He won, uh, the 43rd, I think? They’d sent a bunch of us to this party, and we met there and it just happened, in the bathroom, real quick. Don’t know who of us was more surprised that it happened, him or me. I sucked him off. There, maybe that’s something we could do.” He bumped his hand against Finnick’s. “I could do that for you, if that’s something you’d like. I’d get you off. If that’s something you’d like me to do.” 

Finnick looked away at that, instantly uncomfortable at the thought, momentarily distracted from the confusion about what his question about the women had just made happen in Haymitch’s head. A blowjob by Haymitch would involve hands on his hips, holding him still, it would involve…

“Or maybe forget what I said,” Haymitch grimaced at him, instantly retreating, but Finnick shook his head. 

“No,” he breathed.

Taking Haymitch in his mouth at the same time, lying aligned with him on the bed, or getting on top of him, if Haymitch would let him. Moving his hips, cautiously. Maybe that. Rearranging the pieces of the image in his head, he thought, maybe that. He _wanted_ to let Haymitch do it. 

“We could do that,” he told Haymitch in a slightly shaky voice. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Haymitch replied warily, as if he wasn’t so sure he should believe Finnick. “In a year, for all I care. In two years. Only if it’s something you want.”

“And you don’t have to tell me about the women you’ve slept with if you don’t want to…” Finnick started saying, trying to clear his head and to return to the present, but Haymitch ran right over him. 

“So I slept with Chaff’s escort that one time.” 

“What?” Finnick said. 

He stilled. 

So had Haymitch, his hand between Finnick’s fingers heavy like lead. He withdrew it after a second, placing it securely in his lap, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a new way, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d just blurted that out. 

He looked vulnerable, suddenly, his gaze on anything but Finnick, naked except for the blanket, except he was such a strong, steady person who to Finnick mostly felt safe. Like somebody strong enough to hold a person. 

Finnick wasn’t sure what he would have expected, but this wasn’t it. He’d never at all heard of a victor who’d slept with one of the escorts, their closest and most familiar jailers. The victors had to work with the escorts whether they wanted or not, but they still freaked most of them out – being exactly what the mentors had to pretend to be like but for real, enthusiastically volunteering to participate in genocide. 

Finnick had never been able to grasp how a person could get so close to the tributes every year, get to know them, then see them die on a big screen and still think that was _okay_. The idea of Haymitch in bed with one of them was completely chilling. 

“What happened?” Finnick asked, anxiously. This wouldn’t be a pretty story. 

A foreign expression had settled on Haymitch’s face, telling him that this was a story Haymitch had been resolved to leave buried forever until a minute ago, when he had suddenly reconsidered, because Finnick had asked. 

Haymitch took a very deep breath. 

“Her name was Catriona Wink,” he said. The name meant nothing to Finnick – Eleven hadn’t won since the 45th Games, so none of their escort had made it into any recaps he had seen from that time frame. And these days, they had a male escort, Finnick was reasonably sure. “She was new. Uh, this was the 54th, just me mentoring without Lyra for the first time. She – Catriona, I mean – she’d just finished college, had known someone important to get the job, I guess. Chaff hated her. She kept looking at his stump like he had a disease she could catch. We made fun of her. She was this dumb kid, star-struck, we were all some kind of heroes to her, except Chaff, hadn’t noticed yet that we were all just dumb kids ourselves. Kept trying to flirt with Conny. She’d have done anything if you just gave her attention. 

“We, uh, the others weren’t involved in it, this was just me, I ran into her one night at the bar,” Haymitch continued after a moment. “And I don’t even know what the fuck I was thinking, I mean, probably just thinking with my dick. She was there. She was interested. And me, I felt attracted to her, on that physical level, but I was disgusted with her, what she stood for, disgusted with myself maybe. Shit, I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his face. 

He paused for a moment, staring into space. “So she takes me to her room, tells me to do her hard, and I hit her. Don’t know why. Just hit her, can’t think of what else to do with that order, except it wasn’t an order, of course, she can’t give me any orders, not like this. She gets scared, but tells me to do it again, like she was being brave or something and like she thought this was, I don’t know, the celebrity kink thing of the season. So I fuck her, bent over her desk, and I just leave her there, after. 

“Next day,” he said, more vehemently, as if he needed to get it all out in one go, and still not looking at Finnick, “next day, Chaff knocks at my door with this shit-eating grin and tells me he doesn’t know what I did, but he thinks it’s the best joke. She’s apparently breaking into tears whenever he mentions me, so he’d spent all morning doing it on purpose, of course. Talks about control group experiments and shit. Needs to consult Beetee, he says, like… yeah.” 

He grimaced. “Couldn’t look at myself in a mirror for weeks, even after I got home. Shitty Games, too, both of them dead at the bloodbath. So.” He took a deep breath, like he was trying to cleanse it all out of his body. Finnick could have told him that that didn’t work. “So that’s how I slept with a woman.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Finnick said, when nothing else occurred to him to say, struggling to find the right reaction. 

Immediately, Haymitch shook his head. 

“I’m not proud of that, that’s not what you should say,” he muttered, when that expression etched on his face so obviously was nothing like pride, it was just ancient shame and pain. Like he’d destroyed who he was that night. 

“Uh,” Haymitch continued. “I’m not sure it even had much to do with sex, what I did with her, looking back… I mean, there’s one thing I’d … never… want to do again, with you or otherwise, but… but there. Maybe it ain’t a good idea to let me make the calls, if that’s what came from it that one time. I mean, that wasn’t a good thing. I wanna say it wasn’t even me, like it was some other person, except of course it wasn’t. It was me alright.”

Finnick just looked at him for a moment, trying to sort out his reactions. He wasn’t even sure what he should be focusing on, the bare fact that this had happened, or the drawn and shaky way Haymitch was sitting in front of him. He knew the man in front of him; he didn’t know the escort, had never met her – that was one thing immediately clear to him, although he wasn’t quite sure yet what it meant. 

“She was older than you,” he eventually managed. 

The non sequitur startled Haymitch enough to blink up at him. “What?”

“She was older than you,” Finnick repeated, voice getting stronger again. “You were twenty at the 54th, and if she was right out of college, she was twenty-five at least.” 

“It doesn’t matter how old she was,” Haymitch replied in a tone as if he thought Finnick had lost it. 

“I’m just saying,” Finnick said. “It wasn’t rape. You make it sound like it was rape, the same they do to us, but it wasn’t like that at all. She wasn’t even your age. You were young and confused and lonely, and she was older and she should have put herself in charge, and she could have said no. She should have known better.” _We never get to say no. We should have the right to be confused._ “So maybe it wasn’t okay, but you were _lonely_ …” 

He wasn’t entirely certain why he was so sure that this should be an acceptable excuse, when objectively it wasn’t; he wouldn’t let it count for his clients. But he had an image of Haymitch at twenty in his head, still so slender from the past starvation and painfully young, still being sold to people, Lyra suddenly gone and leaving him alone with the tributes he was supposed to save – possibly alone forever – and surrounded by Capitol citizens babbling about honor and entertainment, using him. Catriona Wink, young and dumb and part of a system that was using him, like Haymitch’s pain was _wonderful_ if it just screen-tested well. She’d been using him, too. It made him angry. 

“Are you crazy?” Haymitch was saying in a disbelieving voice. “You don’t do that to people, Finnick, escort or no, or you’re no better than them. It’s not a competition of who manages to be the bigger asshole, that doesn’t give you a free pass to fuck up.” 

“You can’t be beating yourself up for something that happened twenty years ago!” Finnick said in exasperation, confused about why this was hitting him so hard. It was starkly reminding him of the last Games suddenly, of what he’d done to Chaff by threatening him. He’d used his disability against him, too, like Catriona had. It was absolutely not about the dreams he had, dreams were different from actions; dreams were about real desires rather than confused accidents. “Do you really expect me to judge you for something you did when I was _four_?” Haymitch cringed at that, like he always did when their age difference was pointed out to them, and Finnick wanted to laugh in a bitter way. He felt like he was a hundred years old all the fucking time. 

“So it was a bad thing, so what,” he said. “I think if anything, the fact that it’s still bothering you even now shows what a good person you are. I bet _she_ ’s not looking back feeling guilty about how she helped children die.”

Haymitch hardened his jaw. “I could think of a thing or two much longer ago that are still bothering me,” he said in a scathing tone that clarified without words he was thinking of the execution of his family. 

“Completely different thing,” Finnick informed him, disbelieving. “You get to want things. Just because there was one time in your life you hit someone doesn’t mean you don’t get to want things anymore.” Automatically, he checked mentally whether Beetee’s gadget was still running, no matter he wouldn’t have minded for the whole world to hear. There were quite a lot of thing he would have liked to shout at the world right now. “You deserve better than having to handle a situation like that in the first place. You get to screw up once or twice in your life.” 

Instead of instantly shooting something back, Haymitch threw him an uneasy look. 

“I’m just saying, maybe this is a good opportunity to reconsider this thing between you and me,” he muttered. 

Finnick gave him a hurt look. “I’m _reconsidering_ how I can get you to understand that it’s okay to say it aloud if you want to touch me, or if you want me to touch you in some particular way. I’m not her, I’m not going to act like I want something when I don’t.” Then and there, he made a decision that he would try his hardest to never do that, now that he knew one big new reason why the idea grossed Haymitch out to that degree. 

“You’re changing the subject.” 

“No, I’m just trying to tell you that a thing you did one time in your life doesn’t change how I feel about you. I wouldn’t even want to change anything about it, not when it means it’s a part of who you are now. I trust you,” he said, reaching out to rub Haymitch’s thigh through the blanket. “I want you exactly the way you are now, gory past and all.” 

“Shit,” Haymitch exhaled, sagging back into the pillow propped against the headrest. It didn’t seem to Finnick like he had won this inane fight, just as if they’d hit a wall, but Haymitch still seemed to be admitting defeat. Finnick wondered what Haymitch expected from him – if he was asking forgiveness, which seemed ludicrous, because Finnick hadn’t been wronged. If he was waiting for Finnick to agree, that it had been wrong and an unforgivable thing to do and Haymitch just needed to live with Finnick knowing about it as a permanent wedge between them. He felt like there _was_ something that Haymitch wanted from him, maybe even in a specific, sexual way, but he’d flat out told Finnick that he wouldn’t be telling him about it. 

Remembering how good it had felt when Haymitch had held him after that talk about his running habits, Finnick made a questioning sound, waiting while Haymitch squinted at him, eventually making room under the blanket for Finnick. Finnick got comfortable in the crook of his arm, all that warm skin pressed against his own, feeling Haymitch’s hand reluctantly settling on Finnick’s back. He kissed Haymitch’s throat, and Haymitch leaned in in a way that felt involuntary, as if he was desperate for the confirmation that everything was still okay. 

Maybe there was still a way of figuring out what Haymitch needed even without telling him. Maybe Finnick could do that, like solving a puzzle. Maybe that was what he needed to do. Haymitch should get to be happy. 

Holding Haymitch close, forehead pressed against Haymitch’s cheek, Finnick tried to ignore the little voice in his head nagging at him to go on a run, to keep moving, reminding him that nothing was resolved; he tried to ignore the louder one that informed him that nothing would ever be okay, no matter how many secrets Haymitch shared with him, as long as Finnick hid so many of his own. But the conversation had also left him feeling strangely safe and warm.

_So what if I just do it? What if I just tell him?_

The thought popped into his head for the very first time, just appearing there out of the blue like this perfectly logical thing to consider – so frightening that he trembled for a second when he fought to not push it away, tentative and marvelous and uncharted idea that it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how the chapter with the shortest outline ended up one of the longest chapters in the fic. I ended up needing to split it into two parts, so this fic has yet again gained another chapter. Again, I apologize for the long delay. Feel free to let me know what you think, in as many or few words as you want. :-)


	20. Chapter 19: The End Of The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You told me all these things last week, about what you’ve done, and there’s something, too… not something that I’ve done but something I want, maybe. I’ve never told anybody,” Finnick added in a whisper. “Not even before, in District Four.”_

### Chapter 19: The End Of The Line

It was a week later that Finnick found himself knocking on Haymitch’s door, huddled into the thin jacket of his running clothes. It provided little protection against the lukewarm spring rain that had been drizzling down for days on end. The workout had soaked him to his bones, boots squishing when he moved, but he knew he’d lose his courage if he went home to change first. Anxiety was raging through him instead of the pleasant buzz of exhaustion that should have settled in, if the sport had done its trick. But the sport hadn’t done its trick for a week. 

When Haymitch opened the door, he looked Finnick over with sharp eyes, and his face said, _What’s wrong?_ He knew that Finnick shouldn’t be back for another hour. 

Finnick buried his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go on a walk towards Swagger’s,” he said, which had been code long since for, _Let’s talk where the Capitol can’t hear._

“Alright,” Haymitch said warily, gesturing at Finnick to take shelter from the rain in the hallway while he vanished into his house to fetch his coat and shoes. 

Finnick stayed where he was, unable to shake the feeling of foreboding that said he was about to break everything apart. Like this was the unavoidable reckoning that he’d known would come ever since they fell for each other, maybe even since he’d run away to District Twelve.

 _Still better than lying to him,_ he told himself, but he knew the reason he had to remind himself of that was that his guts told him the exact opposite was true. It was a bit like standing on the platform at the beginning of his Games – so focused but so frightened, knowing that the odds said fourteen-year-olds had to die.

* * *

Running hadn’t been working anymore.

That evening, after a workout with the spears alongside a handful of the oldest children, staying later than the others, Finnick had taken off to cover some ground on his feet. He’d run along the fence, through the Seam and across the barren, rocky fields that followed behind it in that direction. One or two Seam denizens had looked up when they saw him racing past, including a skinny woman who he thought was Larkspur’s aunt, but they still just stared at him, never quite accepting enough of the stranger in their midst to wave and greet. 

It had been a week since his long conversation with Haymitch about sex and that escort and so many things. Finnick didn’t know why it was still haunting him, his mind returning to it at the oddest times, when he got dressed in the morning or stood in the kitchen stirring soup. It did so now, leaving him too aware that running along the district fence would only lead him in a circle. 

It still boggled Finnick’s mind that Haymitch was refusing to want things, refusing to take this opportunity of finally getting things he needed, as if the idea of it scared him too much. For Haymitch’s sake, he worried about it. However, much more than that, he kept dwelling on the shame on Haymitch’s face when he had told him about Catriona Wink.

Finnick still didn’t know what it meant – if doing one thing wrong could really make somebody a bad person, if that was really possible. What that said about Finnick himself. 

It confused him, everything about it. How could they blame any victor for anything – that was what he thought when he looked at Haymitch – or how could they _not_ blame any victor for everything they’d done since they’d won? That was what he thought when he looked at himself. He’d killed people, children. He’d _liked_ killing them, utilizing their murder to get sponsorship even, systematically, which had to be the worst kind. But how could he think that of himself, then never pause and think it about Haymitch, about Johanna or Mags, too? How was it different? How could he feel so bad about the people he’d fucked if he didn’t feel bad about the people he’d killed, how could he not be blaming Haymitch for having lost control for real if he felt so ashamed of losing control over himself in his dreams? 

It always came down to the dreams, and even now, thinking of them made Finnick shudder, disrupting his measured breathing on an exhale, the veil of rain clouding his sight. 

Finnick was sick of it, sick and tired of all of it to his bones. Nothing ever just made _sense._ He should have control over who he was, but he didn’t. 

_Haymitch would know,_ he thought, miserable. 

He’d left the fields behind and made his way towards the storage facilities, not as steadily as he was used to. Rain still drizzling down thinly, his running clothes damper by the minute, while he tried to chase after his rhythm. 

Finnick gave up. Breathing harshly, he came to a halt. He blinked, rain drops running into the corners of his eyes and down his face, dripping off his chin. He’d reached the loading tracks for the coal transports, behind the passenger station, abandoned after the late-shifters went home. It was the end of the line of those tracks. They only ever led to the Capitol from here.

 _Twelve must be the ugliest place in the world,_ he couldn’t help but think, staring at the black coal mud that the rain was washing down the pavement everywhere around. Everybody who lived in this district would leave if they could. It was an ugly, pathetic, starved place that never had enough of anything and still had spat Haymitch back out because he hadn’t tasted good enough for its liking; and now he was staring at the trains, only ever fetching coal and tributes and victors and making them whores. 

He hated hiding, with a passion. There was nothing in the world he hated more, not even the Capitol, not even the coal. 

For a wild moment, Finnick pictured the victors getting on a television screen, telling the Capitol and the districts exactly what it was like. The mentoring, the whoring, the sheer despair.

Then, he snorted a bitter laugh to himself, considering that would be a spectacularly good way of getting them all killed and still changing nothing. Nothing could change the Capitol’s love for the Games.

What a shitty place he had chosen to make his. 

Finnick stared at the abandoned facilities, water running into his eyes. 

_It’s mine,_ he thought. He was suddenly asking himself if he’d rather be back in District Four, and the answer was still no. Not because he wanted to be away from Four anymore, though. But because Twelve was _his._ This was his _life._

_I guess that means I won that Games._

The thought felt foreign, as if it hadn’t quite settled in. A wave by Larkspur’s mom had never been what he had tried to achieve by coming here. 

That rotten feeling was still gnawing at Finnick, eating him up from the inside very slowly, and he was so sick of that, too. He was sick of hiding those bad things about himself and not acting and knowing that they’d never go away if he kept handling them like that. He was sick of _running away._

But he’d felt like he’d always run away, ever since he’d stolen that golden trident from President Snow and made it his. No matter the relationship he’d started with Haymitch, the school they were building in Twelve, the power he’d gained over his Capitol persona. As long as he kept hiding from the truth about himself, he’d only ever end up back where he’d started, running along the district fence.

So he’d turned around and taken the direct route back home, through the merchants’ part of town – to his real, new, self-made home, to Haymitch’s house – half-convinced already that he was about to just destroy it all, but still unable to stop.

* * *

Finnick was terrified, he could admit that to himself. It did a strange number on his head, waiting on Haymitch’s porch in the rain, in front of that familiar door that he’d stepped through as often as his own. He’d memorized all the scratches of faded blue paint peeling off that wall; he’d sat on that bench more often than he could count. Effie had had that bench replaced when Haymitch first returned, with reporters in his wake. 

Haymitch reappeared in the doorway, having donned his coat and shoes, a couple of blankets thrown over one arm, balancing two steaming mugs of tea. 

“You’re soaked, in case you haven’t noticed,” he informed him when Finnick gave them a confused look, handing him one of them. It smelled of chamomile. “Remember how we trained not catching a cold in winter, shrimper boy. And I’m not gonna waste this, anyway.” 

The mug was too hot to hold. On the way to Swagger’s, Finnick had to cover his palms with the corners of his jacket sleeves before he could properly wrap them around it. They didn’t talk, Haymitch probably assuming that whatever Finnick had to say better wait until they reached the bug-free destination, trudging along with the occasional concerned glance at Finnick. 

They climbed through their usual window, making their way to what had used to be Swagger’s living room. It was growing dark outside, but while they couldn’t get the heating going at the dead victor’s house, the switch on the wall still turned on a forgotten ceiling lamp, covering the room in uneasy shadows. It had been stripped off its contents otherwise, nothing left but the skeletons of empty bureaus and shelves. Finnick had often wondered about that – who’d decided what would stay behind and what wouldn’t, whether the people from the Capitol had confiscated Swagger’s private possessions, too, whether the district people had been smart and brave enough to break in and take what they wanted after he died. 

The floor was still covered by warm, plush, old-fashioned carpet in a faded shade that must have been fuchsia once. Finnick took a blanket from Haymitch, taking a seat on the floor next to a drawer, wrapping himself in it, putting the mug at his feet. Haymitch moved to sit next to him, but Finnick threw him a pleading look, so he reconsidered and chose a space at the wall, putting distance between them and looking more worried than he had before. 

Finnick put the mug back in his hands, feeling it burn against his palms. He blew on it, softly, feeling the heat retreating from his face, then wafting back when he stopped doing so. 

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, sounding strangely detached to his own ears, like that was another man who’d spoken. Not the suave one he became when a camera was pointed at him, who was still very much him. But somebody new and calm, who’d taken his place for the occasion. “I should have said something a long time ago, but I didn’t know how. I was scared that you’d find out. I didn’t want to stay over at night anymore, because you’d find out.” 

Narrowing his eyes at him, Haymitch leaned forward a bit. “Okay.”

 _I’ll lose him,_ he thought, actually putting words to that greatest fear in his mind. What he had with Haymitch – their relationship and friendship – had become his whole life. Haymitch and the Hunger Games. That was another thing that scared him out of his mind if he thought about it too hard. 

“You told me…” He had to stop when his voice broke, wetting his lips. “You told me all these things last week, about what you’ve done, and there’s something, too… not something that I’ve done but something I want, maybe. I’ve never told anybody,” he added in a whisper. “Not even before, in District Four.” 

“Go on.” Haymitch sounded uneasy, and Finnick exhaled a long breath. 

“I have that… kink,” he said. “I get off on getting raped.” 

The words rang too loudly through the room. 

There was a moment of silence, until Haymitch, very carefully, put his tea mug down on the carpet and leaned back against the wall, elbows propped on his knees. 

“I have a hard time believing that,” he eventually said. 

Finnick swallowed down that lump. 

“It’s true,” he said. “I dream about it all the time.” 

“That may be so,” Haymitch said. “But you and I both know that that’s just how these things go. Of course, it gets you off; your body’s gotta react to it, but that’s a survival thing. It’s gotta do that if you want your family to stay safe. That doesn’t mean it’s what you want if you’re giving a choice.”

But Finnick was already shaking his head. “You don’t understand,” he breathed, so of course Haymitch closed his mouth, waiting for further information, and Finnick suddenly had trouble putting words to that thing. He’d carried it around so long, but he’d always refused to think about it in detail if he didn’t have to. So he chose each word very carefully now, staring at his mug instead Haymitch. 

“I…” he said, starting again. “I… That’s not what I’m talking about.” His voice was still calm, but something in it also sounded very, very dead to him. “I know that what they do to me in the Capitol, it’s rape.” Such an important thing to say aloud for the first time, degenerating into an aside in a conversation about something so much more terrifying. “I know that, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I… When I’m in the Capitol, it’s rape, but it doesn’t feel like rape. They want it to feel like consensual sex. But when I dream about it… when I think of it, during, when I… you know…” _President Snow pursing his lips when Finnick reached down to open his pants._ “…that’s different from that. I… fantasize… about, about how I struggle and these people won’t let me go although I tell them to stop…” His voice was turning high and thin. “…and they don’t and I’m scared but I still… It’s a kink. I have a kink.”

When he looked up, that Haymitch’s face had taken a strange pale shade, and he was just staring at Finnick, expressionless. 

_I should run and hide,_ he thought, but couldn’t move. 

Haymitch shook it off with obvious effort, looking away and then giving Finnick the side-eye. 

“Okay,” he breathed after a moment. “Okay, yeah, I get it now, shit. I get it.” 

_Run and hide._ But there was no other place left to run away to. 

End of the train tracks.

“I’m so sorry,” Finnick whispered, looking down. 

He’d never wanted to cause Haymitch pain.

There wasn’t an immediate reply. None of Haymitch’s usual, _“Oh shove it”_ or _“Whatever”_. Finnick didn’t dare looking up, but then there were clothes rustling. The sound of boots on carpet told him that Haymitch had gotten up, a looming shadow in the corner of his eye now; he couldn’t help but tremble a little bit. He’d never been hit much by anybody in his life, baring the occasional slap by his mom, or otherwise, kinky stuff during sex play with clients where he’d given as much as he got, but for a glimpse, in that moment, he still expected a fist flying at his face. 

He’d grown to rely too much on Haymitch laughing those apologies off, like a safety net catching him when he fell. 

The fingers around his tea mug were shaking too much. He wished that it were still too hot to hold. 

“Okay,” he heard Haymitch say, muttering to himself. He was moving through the room, not leaving, just pacing. “Alright.” 

A sudden wave of gratitude hit Finnick, just because Haymitch hadn’t just _gone,_ but that didn’t make his hands feel any steadier. 

“Alright. Okay.” Haymitch took an audible breath. “Give me some details to work with here, I guess.” 

“Details?” Finnick replied, voice still so thin, glancing up just enough to focus on Haymitch’s legs and the seam of his heavy coat, standing above him in the middle of the room.

“Yeah,” Haymitch said with a hard voice. “What do you expect me to say if I barely know anything yet? It’s a broad topic, alright? Tell me how this is supposed to go.” 

“What do you mean?” Now he just felt hoarse. 

Haymitch sounded adamant. “Like how many people?” he ground out. 

“I… what? That’s not the point, it _depends…_ ”

“Guess it doesn’t matter if it’s only two of us anyway, can’t hardly rope another person into this,” Haymitch muttered like an aside, and Finnick was just confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He hadn’t expected this. 

There was an angry edge in Haymitch’s voice. 

“Alright, what else?” he said. “These people in your fantasies, they hurt you? Beat you up? They use their fists or something else or what? Are you gonna want implements?” 

A surge of nausea hit Finnick; he could barely stop himself from lowering his head between his knees and shutting down. Images rose in his head, unbidden – President Snow licking his lips, the dream images transforming into something like reality, hands on him real enough to feel the callouses on a person’s fingers, their breath too hotly on his neck. He wanted to _scream._ He didn’t think he could have screamed. 

“No,” he managed, scrambling. “No, no, that’s not the _point,_ listen, I mean, yes. Sometimes, they beat me up, they use things…” They used whatever his clients of the season had used, really, the dreams weren’t all that imaginative in that way. He’d gotten his ideas in the Capitol. “They beat me up, they fuck me and they spit and they _laugh_ at me, and I tell them no and they _laugh_ …”

“You cry when they do it to you?”

“…and I want them to stop and they don’t, of _course_ I cry, they _hurt_ me, what do you think…” He was actually crying, that was why Haymitch had asked that in that strange, aggressive way. He was crying without any control over it, tears just running and running and running down his face like the rain had before and he’d dropped the tea, spilling it all over the carpet, clutching his face and still unable to get a grip. 

“The fuck, Finnick,” Haymitch breathed, but that didn’t help Finnick’s head to clear up, either. 

Something weird had happened inside of him, breaking open some kind of dam that he hadn’t known was there. Hearing himself say those obvious words – _of course, I cry, they hurt me_ – had unlocked something that maybe didn’t even have to do with the dreams and the sex. Or maybe it had everything to do with it, and he couldn’t even attach a specific feeling to it. It just made tears pouring out. He threatened to _break_. 

He tried to focus on the things he needed to say.

“I don’t think I’ve always been like that.” That part was so important suddenly. Haymitch needed to know that before he went away. Finnick hadn’t started out this way, he’d been a normal boy from the fishing district, with normal dreams. He’d wanted people to like him. He’d wanted to give something back to the community one day. He’d wanted to own his own boat. “It didn’t use to be like this. I think they made me like this. But now it’s still me.” 

“What the actual fuck,” he heard Haymitch say, caught in a complete lack of expression – unable to settle on a reaction maybe. 

Then there was a flurry of motion. When Finnick glanced up, Haymitch had moved, resting his hands so violently on the sill of a window that the whole frame had cluttered, staring outside. Presenting his profile to Finnick. His face looked angry and troubled and rigid, and the breath that he took didn’t sound like it resolved anything for him. He turned to look at Finnick again, dangerous like a whip. 

“And how exactly do you expect that I do anything like that to you it breaks you into fucking bits like that?” he growled. 

Finnick just flinched. Hitting the sill in that frustrated, helpless way again, Haymitch let it go. 

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his face. 

“I don’t know,” Finnick whispered, but he wasn’t sure if it had been loud enough for Haymitch to hear. 

There was a banging sound so loud that a part of Finnick honestly wondered if the bugs in one of the other houses could have picked it up, because Haymitch had punched the wall so hard that it left an actual dent. 

No matter what happened to him, Haymitch tended to react to the world with that pointed, passive inactivity, a phlegmatic, unconcerned kind on the good days and a frozen, helpless kind on the bad ones. Finnick suddenly was struck by the realization that that was because the alternative would have been reactions like this one, too much emotion at once. And Finnick had been the one finally bringing one of them out. 

An angry Haymitch Abernathy, he thought in a detached, hysterical way, was a very scary sight. 

“Not gonna do anything like that to you,” Finnick heard him muttering, in a determined, agitated way, prowling the room like a tiger in a cage. He sounded like he’d reached a decision. “What the fuck do you even think, proposing something like that, not gonna do that when you’re fucking coming apart at the seams here, how sick a thing would that be.” 

It was impossible not to picture it anymore: Not the faceless strangers looming over him anymore, but Haymitch, angry Haymitch forcing himself on Finnick and slapping him so hard that it twisted his head around, Haymitch and the familiar way he smelled and felt. Free fall. It twisted everything around, taste of metal flooding his mouth. Finnick felt like he could just lean over and puke, or like he should sway. 

“I don’t think I can do it with you like that,” he somehow managed to croak. 

Haymitch twirled around to him. 

“Then why propose it like that, huh?” he snapped. “Thirteen’s fucking ashes, Finnick, what in the whole fucking world?” 

Again, Finnick flinched, too hard to hide it. Haymitch recoiled like he’d been slapped. 

“Fucking dirt of all the districts,” he said, breathing harshly. 

Not that Finnick should have expected anything else, baring something worse. Of course, Haymitch thought it was sick because it _was sick._

“So what’s this all about then?” Haymitch demanded, standing still in the middle of the room again. 

Finnick couldn’t make himself look up. “You should know about it,” he whispered. “You should know what I’m like.” 

“Well alright,” Haymitch said. “What does it mean?”

He waited for a reply, getting into motion again when Finnick managed a shaky, “What?”

“I get that it’s not just some fun fantasies… fuck,” he added, as if just saying that aloud boggled his mind. “It’s not just some fantasies and you don’t want to do it like that with me. So what else does it mean? What’s it about?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” Finnick said, considering that very question had been eating him up for over two years; he could have laughed. “I don’t _know_ what it means, it means I’m sick, that’s what it means…” Haymitch was turning around to look at him again, but Finnick didn’t give him time to speak. “What if it means it’s something that I’ll want to do to _you_?”

At a loss for words yet again, Haymitch just looked down at him for another moment. 

“Now that’s not even making a lick of sense from what you’ve told me so far, kid,” he eventually said. 

He hadn’t called Finnick that – _kid_ – since long before they started kissing, not since – Finnick guessed – before he’d started feeling attracted to him. 

It felt like a good fit now, considering Finnick felt about as helpless as the day he’d first been Reaping age. His first Reaping Day, a whisper had spread through his town like a wildfire that a male volunteer had been scheduled but bailed. Of course, in the end, that day, he’d still gotten another reprieve of two years. 

Then, he’d gone to the Capitol to smile and wave during his parade, embraced by the crowds, and his transformation into that thing had commenced. 

His first patron had been a very wealthy, very powerful vice minister from the District Affairs office; she’d come all the way to District Eight to meet him on his Victory Tour, in secret, where nobody would see. She could have been his mother. She’d been very soothing and very kind and it had hurt so fucking much when she put things inside him before she put him inside her, making sure to take him in every way. He never thought of her; he never did.

“But how would it be different?” Finnick heard himself say. “It’s where we’re going with the things we’ve done. I’m always in charge. You always do what I want. You’re just there, and I use you like some kind of…”

“That’s got _shit_ to do with being forced.” Haymitch’s interruption was actually a bark. He just sounded disturbed, determined. “Nothing, you hear me?” He paused, angrily, then added, “I’m not some kind of submissive, never mind your victim. You can pull my hair all you want, doesn’t make it rape.”

With a pained groan – this low, unfiltered animal sound – Finnick buried his head in his hands, clutching his hair so hard it hurt. He couldn’t do this. It was too confusing, and there were too many contradicting thoughts in his head at once, and he couldn’t _deal._

“I don’t think I know the difference anymore,” he said, voice muffled. “What if it means I don’t know the difference anymore…?” 

It hadn’t been the greatest orgasm he’d ever had, that day two years ago when the light of that delicate desk lamp fell on President Snow’s face. It had been mechanical, even after he’d spit on his hand, though the chafing had hurt and that had helped. He’d tried remembering clients he’d found attractive, young women with full breasts and perfect men with narrow hips. He’d dragged up a memory from when he’d been young, the expectant way a girl’s skin felt when he put his hand under her shirt. He’d run a litany of _no_ in his head and wished that Snow would just reached out and hurt him already, hurt him or touch him, make it cruel or the usual, or that he could reach out and hurt Snow. And then, he’d come, in this perfunctory way, Snow’s eyes still all over him, feeling bare. 

“I really don’t think that’s a thing you can forget,” Haymitch very quietly said. 

Clothes rustled, closer by. It took a while until Finnick managed to raise his head a bit, his fingers loosening. Haymitch had crouched down in front of him, far away enough to not intrude, but near enough to look at him very closely, their eyes on the same level. When Finnick met his gaze, Haymitch was studying him. He looked drawn. 

“What is it that you really want to be doing with me?” he said. “Truth time, none of that bullshit of how it should be about me. You wanna stop altogether? Because if you want to stop, we stop, you don’t have to feel guilty about that.” 

The thought sending this instant shot of pain through his chest, fear of the loss of that good thing, Finnick mutely shook his head.

“Alright,” Haymitch said. “So what do you want to be doing instead?”

The words just came without thought; Finnick didn’t know where they’d been hiding. Maybe behind the other secret.

“I want to go back to how it was,” he said. “I don’t want you to start touching me more. I want to keep making the decisions, I… I don’t want a blowjob.” He was stuttering. He didn’t want to say that he wanted a blowjob and then have to go through with it in a year because he’d said it. He wanted to not _have_ to do it. “I thought it would be temporary, so we’d get started, but I don’t want to change it anymore, I don’t think I could make myself…” 

“Then that’s what’s gonna happen, alright?” Haymitch said it with an edge. 

Finnick looked away, feeling miserable and ashamed. “It shouldn’t be all about me.” 

“Well, it is now, so fucking deal with it,” Haymitch said. 

He grimaced, rocking in his crouched position as if it was starting to bother his knees. 

“I want to make you _happy,_ ” Finnick whispered, desperate, and Haymitch stood up. 

“Then make me happy on your own terms,” he said, as if that concluded that topic. 

Staying where he was standing, he eyed Finnick at his seated position for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. 

A weird unhinged feeling had spread in Finnick’s chest, as if something massive had come loose, but there was no telling where it would dock next. 

“What _I_ want right now…” Haymitch sounded undecided, venturing into foreign verbal territory. “ _I_ wouldn’t mind sitting down next to you right now.” 

Finnick managed a faded chuckle. He looked around himself, noticing that he’d lost his blanket and that his clothes were still all so damp, and there was a wet puddle of tea that had soaked into the carpet all around. 

“I spilled the tea,” he inanely said. 

“Fun fact,” Haymitch said, a little wildly, fiercely reclaiming balance. “When Swagger moved into this house, he brought his sister, who quit the mines and grew tea in the garden. Swagger allegedly hated her tea, and fled to the Hob every day to trade for different flavors, so he could drink it in her presence and act like it was hers. Whole Seam made fun of how its biggest wuss had won the Games.” 

“I thought you’d never talked to him,” Finnick faintly said, voice shaking, eyes on the ruined carpet. 

“I didn’t,” Haymitch said. “As far as I was concerned as a kid, he was some kind of far-away district celebrity. Then, I turned Reaping age and we found him dangling from a tree in the Meadow, right in time for me to face shit on my own. And they brought in the scary woman from Two. But, in the Seam, you know that stuff just because, it’s what we did instead of television.” 

Finnick nodded, the inane chat washing right over him, while he tried to move so that the carpet underneath him would be dry, and a big enough dry spot next to him materialized for Haymitch, too. He was moving on autopilot, now. Everything was faint. 

After glancing a question at Haymitch, he waited until Haymitch had gotten comfortable next to him, stretching out his legs and shifting into a comfortable position. 

“Talk to me, kid,” he said. Instead of relaxing against the drawer, he picked up the discarded blanket, starting to drape it over Finnick’s shoulders with the cautious motions of a person who didn’t have a lot of experience with that gesture. “I’m vastly realizing it’s a shitty idea to let you just think.” 

Finnick tried to listen into himself, figuring out what was left. But he just felt bad. He had a faint notion that he should be better than this, though he couldn’t quite grasp it anymore. 

Haymitch sighed. “Shit, Finnick,” he said. “This is just… shit.” 

Instead of replying, Finnick grabbed the seams of the blanket and huddled into it more tightly, leaning against Haymitch, who put an arm around him without prompting. Finnick was considerably taller than Haymitch, but he was sitting more hunched, so it worked, and he also felt much younger than Haymitch. Of course, he’d always been much younger than Haymitch. But he didn’t usually feel that young anymore. 

“I’m scared,” he told Haymitch quietly. He’d set out to share all of his secrets, after all. He was so very scared. “I don’t know what it means, about me.” 

His head on Haymitch’s shoulder, he could feel the rise and fall of the other man’s lungs, in and out. Deeply and calmly, like he’d once told Haymitch he should breathe when he swam. It hadn’t been a thing he’d had to teach Haymitch first, though, who’d been good at staying calm from the start.

“Neither do I,” Haymitch admitted after a moment. “I’m sorry. I haven’t got a clue what it could mean.”

“I’m sorry,” Finnick whispered, and Haymitch said, “Yeah, yeah.” 

He paused, his body against Finnick’s not altogether relaxed.

“So you’ve got dreams,” he added, vehemently and angrily. “We’ve all had fucking dreams.” 

“You’ve…” Finnick started saying, but Haymitch shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “I’ve… I’ve had dreams of killing you in a Games. You just lying there and all that blood and that axe and those birds…” His voice trailed off for a moment, before it grew stronger again, and he arm tightened around Finnick in anger. “Doesn’t mean it’s a thing I could make myself do.” 

It was a big thing to say for a victor. It was an incredible thing to say. 

Haymitch’s hand was stroking along where it was resting on Finnick’s arm, thoughtful and soothing and firm. 

“You ever want to go out there and hurt people? Some girl, some kid, Fallon or Larkspur or that baker boy, Peeta, maybe? Or me? That a thing you ever think about? Making plans? Like with that trident of yours?”

“No,” Finnick exclaimed, shuddering at the thought. 

“Alright,” Haymitch said. “So if you could choose right now, never be sold again against your will or going on with a patron of your choice, would you make it all stop?”

“Of _course._ ” 

He was trembling again, in Haymitch’s embrace, halfway safe. 

“Then my best guess would be that it doesn’t mean a fucking thing,” Haymitch said. “I mean, I’m out of other ideas here. You don’t want to do a thing, you don’t do it and screw what’s in your head. Maybe…” He paused, trying to figure this out. “Maybe it’s just some fantasies. You don’t have to wanna do every shitty thing that’s in your head. Maybe they’ll just go away one day, and then, that’s that. Maybe they just don’t… matter.”

“But what if…” 

“There really isn’t an if here, Finnick. It’s either a thing you wanna do for real and you _don’t_ …” The arm around him tensed again. “…or you don’t even want it and who gives a fuck if it’s there if you don’t. I mean, what else could there be, right? What else is there?” 

He paused. “None of the people in the Capitol dream about hurting us and they still do it. That ain’t better,” he said. “That’s worse.”

Finnick pushed himself closer against Haymitch until Haymitch drew him further in, so he buried his face against Haymitch’s chest. Breathing in chamomile and laundry detergent and soap, Haymitch’s own clean scent underneath that never reminded him of his sweaty, spent, satisfied clients, he didn’t want to ever move. He didn’t want to think about anything anymore. He’d spent all his energy that he had on it, and now he just had come to a halt. 

It was a dizzying feeling. It scared him a little bit, because he couldn’t remember having felt like that, like he didn’t want to move anymore. He still wasn’t sure where all these thoughts in his head would settle down, once he thought them through. In a better place, he thought, but that was hard to believe. 

And Haymitch was still there. He hadn’t gone away. 

Maybe it was true. Maybe he could choose to do none of those things, and that was alright. 

If Finnick kept making the calls when they had sex, maybe that even meant he could decide to make it about Haymitch, too. He could make it about Haymitch all he wanted. It was Finnick who made the decisions, but it was Haymitch he was focusing on. 

The thought made him feel adrift. 

“You look like you’re about to drop,” Haymitch muttered against his temple after a minute. “Want to go home? Warm up, take a hot shower, go to bed? I’d even make you more tea.” 

“Not yet,” Finnick muttered back. 

“Alright,” Haymitch said. “Never say I didn’t do anything fancy for you, though.”

Finnick snorted, but he didn’t move. 

It should be so easy a thing, wanting things, he thought. He didn’t understand how such a simple thing could be so hard. 

He’d told Haymitch. And Haymitch was still there. And it felt like he could decide to do things, today or tomorrow, and not do the other things, and that would be just okay. It had been _fixed._ _Something_ had been.

Maybe, he didn’t even have to hate himself as much as he’d thought.

* * *

In April, the last stylist application package arrived. 

Finnick found it lying on the steps of Haymitch’s house when he returned from a bakery run one morning. Bright warm sun coloring the paper a stark white, he shoved the bakery bag into the crook of his arm to open it up, and a single folder dropped into his hands. 

They hadn’t actually expected more applicants; working closely with Effie, who had proven an unsurprisingly Capitol-attuned fashion sense, they’d narrowed it down to ten stylist teams with equally mediocre parade costume drafts, trying to weigh strategy against actual skill. 

_We’ve found them!!_ said Effie’s flowery handwriting on a post-it glued at the top, doubly underlined with a pink glitter pen. 

_Portia Birdfeather,_ the first vita said and the second right behind, _Cinna Blue._

A note informed him that this team had already received offers from both District Eight and District Three to be signed for the upcoming Quarter Quell, but for a bullshit reason phrased in application prose, it had chosen to apply to District Twelve before signing a contract. They claimed, in all ludicrous seriousness, that their style would lend itself to coal mining best. Either, Miss Birdfeather and Mr. Blue had a very, very special outlook on fashion indeed, or they were complete and utter self-possessed idiots. 

Balancing the bag on his arm, Finnick turned to the page with the drafts.


	21. Chapter 20: The Mockingjay Pin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I need you to bring her home, I need you to not fuck half the Capitol this time,” Gale interrupted him, desperate, angry._

### Chapter 20: The Mockingjay Pin

The morning of Reaping Day was warm and bright. Finnick awoke to the sound of robins in the trees outside the open window, a breeze blowing in. 

He stretched, sleepily, blinking his eyes open to see a beam of sunlight falling across the room onto his trident, cascading off the gleaming alloy so starkly that it blanketed the weapon entirely. _Get up, go on a run, shower,_ his routine said, but it was the morning of Reaping Day, so the Capitol knew when they would have this again. Remembering the fallout of the 73rd Games, he just rolled over to Haymitch, currently presenting his broad back to Finnick, still asleep. Finnick inched closer, wrapping an arm around him and kissing the back of his neck to wake him up to something nice. 

Later, they went to buy a loaf of bread off a pale-looking Dane Mellark and had breakfast together, richer than Finnick would have favored but healthier than would have been Haymitch’s choice. The little preparation that could be done for a Games had been done, so there wasn’t a lot to say now. They sat on the porch in the sun together for a while, close enough for their arms to touch. Paint had started peeling off the façade of Haymitch’s house for real these last few months, and they idly wondered if it would be worth the hassle trying to fix it up themselves. They could pay somebody from the Seam to do it and provide for a job that way, but doing it themselves would be more fun.

The wondrous Cinna and Portia would meet up with them in the Capitol, at the ready to adjust their astonishing parade costumes from the moment they could estimate the height and weight of the reaped tributes. Cherry had called the day before, giving him – and Haymitch, as a last courtesy until Portia took his measures – instructions on what he should wear. So they cleaned up for the camera when the time came, a compromise between their district garb and what the Capitol would expect, and Finnick’s hands lingered on Haymitch’s collar when he fixed it for him. During last year’s Games, they’d almost fallen apart. Ideally, they’d manage to avoid doing that another time. 

But they also needed to keep working on getting one of those children home one day. 

A part of Finnick had a vague, cold-hearted plan to talk Aleese into volunteering in a few years, if he promised to pay for better medicine for Mitchy in case of her death. 

“Are you ready?” he quietly asked, remembering the numerous times one of them had asked the other that. Their sense of humor ran the same way in that regard: The reply had always very cynically been _no._

“Might as well,” Haymitch said, hand twitching as if it wanted to wrap around a bottle neck. 

Instead, he put it on Finnick’s back on the way out, anchoring them both. 

At least, they knew that Finnick probably wouldn’t get out of this one hating himself even more, and Haymitch had proven to himself the last time that he could make it through without a drink. It was hard to imagine any new challenges that the Capitol could throw at them anymore. 

Not that it ever ran out of those, though.

* * *

Finnick and Haymitch were seated on chairs at the back of the stage, while the children were registered by Games clerks below, the crowds herded onto the square. The Capitol descended upon Twelve in full on Reaping Day, a brightly colored district rash, their camera teams perched on the roofs, the Peacekeeper squads surveying the proceedings. Finnick wondered if the whole town architecture had been created specifically for Reaping Days, so that the right voices would carry and there would be spaces to mount the cameras. 

He tried to make out a difference from the first time he’d stood before this population to give his arrival speech. But apart from how the children were stood in the Reaping sections this time, the adults watching on from the sidelines with drawn faces, they still all looked sickly and pale, those parents still painfully young, those thousands of eyes still filled with barely concealed suspicion and spite. At least, it wasn’t meant for him, or him or Haymitch, this time, but for the Games: the Mayor’s speech of days long past, the Capitol liberation video showing beautiful meadows and maple trees the likes of which Twelve hadn’t earned the right to grow. At least, he didn’t bring two body bags with him this time. Not yet. He still searched for traces of Raif and Bee in people’s faces sometimes. 

District Thirteen on the screen, defeated and dead. What the Capitol gave, it also took away. 

Effie commanded the stage with the usual ignorant enthusiasm of the escorts for the big, big day, joking and laughing into her microphone, cheerful wig of bright pink curls adorning her head. The attention paid to Twelve in recent Games had been good for her own career, and her talk of how she hoped to be promoted to a better district had recently changed to hopes that Twelve itself would keep improving with her in the lead; she was in a very good mood. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!” she chirped, when the odds of Twelve had never been. 

_Shane “Swagger” March. Haymitch Abernathy. Our honored victor from District Four, Finnick Odair._ The list of district victors wasn’t a list. 

_Just don’t make it Gale,_ Finnick prayed to the gods he didn’t even worship, refusing to look at the section of eighteens. He knew it wasn’t likely. But if Snow had decided that Games training wasn’t what he’d meant when he’d demanded they be entertaining, Gale Hawthorne would undoubtedly be reaped. 

Then Effie announced, “Ladies First!” Next to Finnick, in his chair, Haymitch tensed, ever so slightly, and Finnick’s eyes automatically roamed the rows upon rows of starved dead meat, Aleese amongst the thirteens and the twins one section up, praying that all of his children would get another year to prepare. 

“Primrose Everdeen!” Effie declared. Finnick felt his stomach form a pitiful knot. 

_We’ll make her ace the interview, she’ll look great for that parade surprise,_ he tried to think but he remembered Prim so well, of course, that girl who’d tried to join them because she’d been so scared, who’d been so determined to learn how to throw knives. She hadn’t, though, and there he could see her now, pale as death and fists clenched to her side and _twelve,_ taking a small and stiff step forward. Some of the other twelves were crying; they stumbled back to form a path. 

“Prim!” It was only now that Finnick remembered – _shit, of course, her sister’s… sixteen, seventeen_ – so his eyes shot there, to the rows further up and – “Prim!” – a ball of children had formed, tiny and muscular Katniss Everdeen in their midst, struggling to get free, shock on her face, some merchant girl – the mayor’s daughter – worriedly holding onto her arm. 

Then the crowd made room, anyway, and Katniss ran down the path to the stage, where Prim had almost reached the stairs up to the stage. Prim was so close Finnick could see how there was no blood left in her face. She was twelve, she was dead and she was smart enough to _know._ She was shaking.

Katniss pushed her sister behind herself as if she could actually protect her that way, and her voice rang through all of the square, clear as day, “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Haymitch breathed next to him, but the turmoil on the square swallowed it up. Gale was working his way through the crowd towards the girls now, too, towering over everybody. Finnick barely stopped himself from standing up, staring at Katniss Everdeen who wasn’t quite starved and who shot her squirrels square in the eye, with her blue dress and her long fine braid that would look so nice on the television. As would the determination on her face – a camera was definitely capturing a close-up this second. 

Katniss had told him once she’d volunteer to save Prim, of course, but Finnick wouldn’t have dared believe her in his _wildest dreams._ It was her nightmare coming true. It really wasn’t his.

That girl was as good as a Career volunteer.

The volunteer protocol for Twelve was so rusty that nobody seemed to quite know what to do next. Finnick certainly couldn’t have helped. Mayor Undersee huffed at Effie that they should just proceed, and Gale arrived and swiped Prim up in his arms to carry her away, who screamed and fought and shouted for her sister, while Katniss climbed the stairs as if her legs were moving on their own. Then, she stood onstage by the microphone, stiff from the shock of what had just happened to her, while Effie launched into excited conversation to create more material that could be aired. 

And then, as one, the crowd grew even stiller, when one after the other, the children and men and women on the square raised their left arm into the air instead of giving the demanded applause, touching three of their fingers to their lips and holding them up steadily. 

“Is this a good thing or bad?” Finnick muttered at Haymitch without looking at him, because he had no idea if that meant _fuck you_ or _goodbye_ or something else, and Haymitch muttered, surely without a twitch on his face that the cameras could catch, “The Capitol won’t know either way.” 

_Then can we make them do that every time somebody volunteers?_ Finnick wanted to say, fiercely imagining the scope of that on screen once they’d given the Capitol a context to understand it, all those people, while Haymitch abruptly got up. Because, Finnick saw now, Katniss Everdeen was still very much facing the cameras, but close to tears. 

“You come stand with your mentor over there, that’s how the volunteers do it in Twelve,” Haymitch jovially said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pushing her off shot for some steps. It was a small thing, but Haymitch was broad and Katniss was tiny and it shielded her for a second or two, enough for her to clear her face. From his position, Finnick could see her swallow hard and desperately.

Effie was announcing the drawing of the boys as if the best was yet to come, and something terrible suddenly constricted in Finnick’s chest because maybe Gale _would_ be reaped, and maybe now he’d volunteer. It made no sense – if he’d been thinking clearly, he’d have known – for Gale to take a weaker boy out of the competition to replace with himself. But he knew how Gale sometimes looked when he spoke of Katniss Everdeen and… 

“Peeta Mellark!” Effie shouted. The strong, shy, friendly baker’s boy who’d once drawn a bird-flipping Haymitch onto a cake for them was stumbling forward, shock on his face giving way to a battle for composure. A path cleared, he reached the stage, no voice rang through the square and of course, Gale didn’t volunteer. Finnick shook off his paralysis and got up to shake the boy’s hand to correspond with Haymitch standing next to Katniss. A thought occurred to him that this was just as bad as Gale. Worse even, because Peeta couldn’t shoot or run traps and this was so cruel. Especially since Snow couldn’t have set it up. 

Snow couldn’t have known that Finnick still remembered how he’d first arrived in Twelve, and Peeta Mellark had been the first to dare and give him a smile on the street. He’d been the first glimpse at a welcome gesture that Finnick had gotten here, the only one until Haymitch started recovering from his depression. 

Finnick fiercely decided that Katniss Everdeen or not, he’d do his all to give this boy a fighting chance, too. He wouldn’t let Peeta just die.

* * *

“Finnick!” 

Finnick wouldn’t have heard the voice through the noise of the scattering crowd if he hadn’t been half-expecting it. About to make his way alongside Haymitch into the Justice Building for preliminary interviews and tech talk with Effie, Finnick turned to see Gale making his way past the last remaining eighteens, climbing the podium and catching up with him. The camera teams were already breaking up camp to make the Hovercrafts; nobody would care why this boy was on the stage. Finnick waited for him, drawing him into the shadow of a pillar where nobody would notice them, either. 

“If there’s anybody in Twelve who can survive a Games, it’s her,” Finnick told him, catching his eyes, voice firm. “Of all the people here, you and she were the kids with the best shot to get home alive this year.”

Gale’s eyes looked dark against the sickly paleness of his skin. 

“Promise me,” he said. “I don’t care who mentors her, promise me you’ll do anything to bring her home.” 

“If she makes district interviews, don’t tell them you’re her friend,” Finnick rode right over him. They didn’t have much time. “You haven’t spoken for months, tell them that. Tell them everybody admires her, say she needed to focus on the Games instead of friends, get Prim to tell them Kat’s always wanted to be a tribute all her life because of the _glory_ and _honor_ and don’t ever…”

“I need you to bring her home, I need you to not fuck half the Capitol this time,” Gale interrupted him, desperate, angry. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. 

“Don’t let them know you’re friends,” he repeated, taking a breath. _That_ would stop the fucking, maybe, at least for Katniss, if she really stood a chance. He would not let Gale become blackmail material. “If you can pull it off at all, claim she’s estranged from her mother as well, they only live under the same roof anymore. It’s too late to leave out Prim.” If Katniss made it out, if Prim died in a mining accident, Katniss would be free. A lot of ifs.

Gale’s eyes darkened. 

“Promise me you’ll do everything…”

“I’m always doing everything I fucking can!” Finnick harshly said, and there was a hand on his arm. He twirled around to face Haymitch.

“Trinket’s looking for us,” he told Finnick and nodded a sober acknowledgement at Gale. “Get her gym teacher to talk to the press at Final Eight, if she makes it that far. _Athletic_ ’s code for _Career._

“That better not have been recorded by any bugs,” he lowly added at Finnick when he dragged him through the Justice Building halls, leaving Gale to helplessly look after them, condemned to stay behind. 

Finnick snorted at him. “Like you wouldn’t do anything for a tribute like that girl.” 

“I know,” Haymitch said. “Could get the best odds Twelve’s ever had in a Games since before Swagger and me.”

Both of these kids stood a better chance at getting home than anybody had seen from District Twelve since before the Career districts were established. Katniss Everdeen was a straight-out lottery win, but Finnick had _seen_ the Mellark boys hauling flour bags, and he’d bet a lot that Peeta Mellark was _charismatic_. The crowds would be charmed by that nice smile of his. And now, they even had the parade costumes to make everybody look up and take notice. 

Everything had just changed.

* * *

They’d all be watching the complete Reaping together later, but Finnick snuck off when they first got on the train to see a first quick preliminary recap, as Twelve had been the last to go. Arms tightly crossed in front of his chest and the remote still in hand, his mind worked overtime as he surveyed the hideously diverse field. They weren’t the only ones who’d lucked out. Multiple districts had strong, non-starved children from the upper age range in the running. Four had produced two volunteers. Finnick didn’t like that hard expression on Beetee Corelli’s face when he greeted that deceptively timid fifteen-year-old male. A bulky eighteen-year-old with a stormy face like a Career had taken the stage in Eleven, of all places. And the Two male was huge, but Finnick knew they couldn’t hope for a repeat performance of last year’s Games when Two had tried to play it safe instead of marketing towards victory. The fact that the female was only seventeen set him on edge; Two only volunteered eighteen-year-olds usually. Something was up with that. 

District One would be flawless and deadly as always, eager to score their fourth consecutive. They were always vicious after a victory year.

At least, the commentators were already busy spinning Twelve’s _fuck you_ or whatever that gesture had been into the display of a charming district custom. Finnick really needed to find out if they’d be doing that again, ask Haymitch how to handle it in interviews. If they made the wrong claim, Twelve might collectively decide to keep their hands down forever out of spite. 

When he and Haymitch arrived at the dinner table later, Effie was already cheerfully prattling away at a still shaken-looking Peeta Mellark. Katniss slunk in just after them, looking equally lost. 

Finnick clapped Peeta on the back when he sat down next to him, throwing him what he hoped was an easy and reassuring smile. “We didn’t really plan to divide you up in any special way beforehand, but it looks like you’ll be with me. I hope that’s fine with you.”

Exclaiming an affirmative grunt, Haymitch pointed his fork at Katniss. “Means you’ll be with me, obviously. I’m sure we’ll find some fancy things to discuss with each other.” 

“But we generally work together,” Finnick added. “I know it doesn’t always look like that on the screen, but that’s how it works in our case. So if you need anything or if you have any questions and your mentor isn’t around, feel free to just approach the other one.” 

The children nodded, clearly still in shock and not quite processing things in real time. Finnick had done this often enough by now to know they’d eventually start wondering about some questions, like for example what would happen if they had to go up against each other and the other one’s mentor had all the dirt on them. He’d definitely grown accustomed to Twelve’s obsession with that concept, as if this district had ever made Final Two with both its tributes even once in those seventy-three previous Games. He still remembered how scared Bee and Raif had been about that. Maybe it stemmed from something Swagger had said to the district about how he’d let his district partner walk into a trap.

Leaning back in his chair, Finnick looked at Katniss and Peeta in turns for a while – the poacher and volunteer, who’d hopefully provide a heartwarming tale of sisterly love and Games glory in her interview and who’d mastered three kinds of weapon that Finnick knew of so far. And the merchant boy with the nice smile and the broad shoulders, who maybe had some idea how to handle the Capitol from a lifetime of handling his mother – even Finnick knew that everybody in the district looked the other way stiffly when the talk was of Mother Mellark, an unfortunate situation nobody could have done anything about. Katniss and Peeta were amongst the strongest children who’d stood in that square today, in terms of nourishment, but both still dug into their bland proteins as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe they could bump them up to real food tomorrow. 

“At least, you two have decent manners,” Effie was remarking with quite some satisfaction. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like savages. It completely upset my digestion.” Rodey Wills, who had bled out in the mud after the Careers had hunted him down. Aster Cagney, who had made a splash and died to help the district that hadn’t understood her, just because she might as well. 

Finnick’s eyes wandered to Haymitch. Haymitch was another one who unapologetically gorged himself on the Capitol food at every opportunity. Then, he paused, though, because Haymitch hadn’t much touched his food much as of yet. Hunched over his plate, he seemed to have half forgotten his fork, scowling, eyes glued onto Katniss Everdeen. 

It seemed that they were on a gold pin she had fastened to the chest piece of her dress, a little stylized bird – a mockingjay, Finnick thought after a second – framed by a golden ring. It was pretty and delicate, a sentimental district token, looking far outside the price range of a girl from the Seam. Her mother looked merchant though, so who knew what they kept in the attic.

Katniss eventually felt the eyes on her, looking up to shoot Haymitch a defensive look. 

“What?” 

“That pin,” Haymitch said, pointing his fork in its direction and ignoring how that repeated misappropriation of cutlery made Effie frown in offense. “Didn’t wear that before at the Reaping.” 

Katniss’ face became even more guarded. “So? I can wear a district token in there.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“A friend gave it to me,” she muttered at her plate. 

“Must be quite some friend,” Finnick remarked, wondering what he was missing. 

“I guess,” Katniss said as if she’d rather not, while her face conveyed something along the lines of how it didn’t matter anyway because she was dead, and Peeta was dead too, and she’d never see her friend again.

Haymitch put down his fork and got up. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, as if he’d just be in the other room to do a thing.

* * *

“So who gave her that pin?” Finnick said, plopping down on the narrow bed in Haymitch’s train compartment. 

Having waited long enough so that nobody would raise any eyebrows, he’d gotten up himself and employed the victors’ popular excuse of Games preparation that needed to be finished, which everybody always accepted, because it made them look so pompous and busy, when really there wasn’t a lot to prepare when you led little children to their deaths. It gave him an excuse to talk to Haymitch in private.

He’d passed the bar compartment on the way here, feeling a little uneasy about how a small part of him was still involuntarily relieved when he didn’t find Haymitch there. 

But Haymitch was standing in his small bathroom alcove, sliding door open, splashing water on his face perched over the basin. The smell of the flowery Capitol soap wafted out, nothing like the stench of fear and sweat in his arena. 

Now he shook his head without looking up. 

“Wrong question,” he said. “One of the Undersees must have given it to her, I guess. It used to belong to the Donners, but I suppose that Iris took it along when she married Dahey. I mean, you don’t sell a thing like that, and it’s not like the Undersees would have been desperate for the money.” 

“And you know the Donners how?” Finnick asked, making himself sound casual on purpose when it was so clear that this was leading up to something. He’d didn’t know of any Donners, but he supposed that the mayor’s wife and Haymitch had to be about the same age. Mayor Undersee, he thought, was a little bit older than them. 

It was the first time Haymitch shot him a quick look. 

“Maysilee Donner wore that pin as a token in her Games,” he said. “She was one of my district partners in the Quell.”

Oh. 

_Oh._

Haymitch would have had three district partners obviously, what with his Quell featuring the double amount of tributes. But of course, Finnick still knew immediately who he meant. Haymitch had only been in an alliance with one of them. The recaps only ever showed one of them, the anguish so beautiful on sixteen-year-old Haymitch’s face when she died in his arms, her face and his hands stained with too-red blood in the fairytale arena. 

Maysilee. The name Haymitch gasped sometimes at night when he startled awake. 

The Capitol media preferred showing Haymitch and Maysilee’s fight against the Careers, and her death, over the final battle and its subversive tactics. 

“The blonde girl,” Finnick said blandly, because they hadn’t talked about this besides, _“She isn’t here, you aren’t there anymore, listen to me, that was twenty years ago, you’re in Twelve.”_ They’d never talked about Finnick’s pack mates either. None of them wanted to drag up their Games if they didn’t absolutely have to and at night, after nightmares, Haymitch hovered too closely on the brink of flashbacks for that topic to ever be an option, anyway. 

Haymitch threw him a weak smirk, drying his hands. “The blonde girl.” 

Drawing the sliding door shut, he stepped back into the compartment and sank down on the bed next to Finnick, sleeves still rolled up and cufflinks unbuttoned. 

“Not like I didn’t know this Games would turn to shit, isn’t like they don’t always go like that,” he muttered, rubbing his face.

Finnick drew up his legs onto the bed, inching over to get comfortable against the footrest, eyes on Haymitch who in turn was staring at the wall. There were times for touch, but he knew Haymitch well enough to recognize this wasn’t one of them. Haymitch battled things out on his own in his head first, where it was safe because nobody could hear and get hurt. 

“The Games won’t be decided by a district token,” he pointed out after a moment. It wasn’t a reply to what Haymitch had said, but Finnick still thought he might need the reminder. 

Haymitch slumped into himself, just a bit. 

It was sometimes hard to recognize the scared sixteen-year-old in him, helpless and panicked – the same age as Katniss and Peeta – except when suddenly it wasn’t.

Opening and closing his mouth, Haymitch paused. 

Then he settled on: “I’ve never much talked about her anymore since. I mean, nobody remembers her much beside Iris and me. They were twins, they looked the same. The first couple of years, every time I looked at her, I just saw Maysilee and freaked. 

“She probably had a similar problem with me.

“Remember your district partner’s name?” Glancing at Finnick, he nudged at Finnick’s foot, resting next to his thigh. 

“It was Landa Doe,” Finnick replied without having to think. “Before she changed it for the marketing, it was Landa Molere. I was in the big alliance with her.” He hesitated for a beat, knowing he was touching on an unpopular topic. “I thought I’d have to kill her, but the girl from Seven beat me to it when the pack broke apart.”

Haymitch threw him a look. “You Careers are so weird,” he said, and Finnick smirked. 

“Part of our selling point, didn’t you know.”

“The thing about that Quell arena was,” Haymitch said with a stronger voice as if they’d been talking about that all along, “that everything was out to get you in there, even water. Even grass. The more harmless it looked, the more likely it had a thing about it that would kill you. Sort of like the Capitol,” he added with a mutter, and Finnick grimaced at him. 

“Later when Ralda won,” Haymitch continued, “I thought I was so lucky that I didn’t end up like her. She wouldn’t trust food anymore. She was thinking all the time, what if that dinner, that breakfast was poisoned, what if she’d poisoned it herself but had forgotten to mark it in some way. I could have gotten like that, I could have come out and gotten scared of the forest, the Meadow, everything. I mean, Twelve’s kind of shaped like an arena with that electrical fence all around. Year after the Games, I still got kind of relieved every time it rained, because rain had been good, that’s how we got water. But then, I’d think, it could have been acid this time. How did I just assume it wouldn’t be.” 

He took a deep breath. “That arena killed almost twenty of those forty-eight with the environment, they were dropping like rag dolls all over, it was total chance who figured the right things out and who didn’t in time. Those were all judgment calls. But how do you make a judgment call like that? That’s chance.”

Finnick thought about that for a moment, thinking about the beauty of that Games, about what it would have been like to be a beautiful child on a beautiful stage. That could have helped or screwed him over both. Thinking about the jungle in his own arena, the oil of the vines between his fingers, the humidity that always loomed in the back of his neck. The dark parts of that jungle had been so cold, though – chilling. He hadn’t thought about what it had actually felt like on his skin in years. It made him shudder.

He toed the blanket with tip of his fancy Capitol boot, the likes of which he hadn’t owned before he won. 

“Mine had these waterfalls,” he said. “I camped out at one after the pack had broken up. Mosquito mutts, too, and snakes. But those waterfalls, too. I cleaned up in one, in that pond that had formed underneath. Drowned one of the Careers in it later, with a net. After the Games on the victory recap, I saw that they all had those geysers at the ground, turned on every noon and heated up the water so quickly that you’d get boiled. None of us figured that out, except the ones who died that way.” He paused for a moment, considering. “The snakes were awful, but they were big and lazy. Easy to spot. I kept waiting for a chance of luring one of the others at them, but I was never sure who in the alliance knew how to see them coming, too. So that never worked out.”

“In my Victory Tour interviews,” Haymitch said, “I got a lot of questions about Maysilee and me, although they’d all seen Alsey giving interviews during the Games. If there’d been feelings between us. Like you can get attracted to a girl’s pretty eyes or some such nonsense if all you can think of how at least one of you is as good as dead.

“Not that I ever did, but I just wanted to see Alsey again.” He said that a little more quietly. 

“Later on, it kept bugging me, how there had to have been a way to get both of us home, any kind of way. That’s what I was like then, always trying to outsmart the system. Clever Haymitch, they called me, like that hadn’t gotten all my family killed. I tried to stop because it kept biting me in the ass but I thought, there had to have been a way, any way, something that people hadn’t thought up. Not that I’ve ever even gotten a tribute home as mentor, other than in a coffin.” 

“If you want, we can still switch tributes,” Finnick said. He’d wanted Peeta, who’d smiled at him first, but he didn’t want Peeta that much. “I just used the Games prep excuse with Effie, anyway. I can take on Katniss and we’ll call it a late change of strategy.”

The last thing they needed was Haymitch flashing back and forth between his Quell and this Games, Katniss and Maysilee, Maysilee and Katniss, when they stood a real chance with that girl. Finnick wasn’t as concerned about Haymitch’s alcoholism all the time anymore as he’d used to, but he knew they still couldn’t risk taking that chance. That would never be an option.

But Haymitch was already waving it off. “Nah, she’s nothing like her. I’d still have to look at the damn pin on the screens all the time. Just stop me if I cook up something clever again that’ll get us all dead.” 

Then, he groaned, rubbing his face in this tired and ancient and frustrated way. 

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. The skin on the crook of his throat was still gleaming wet, part of the collar soaked. “Shit, we’ll still have to see how she plays on a screen but we could stand a real shot with that girl, couldn’t we? Isn’t she the one who taught Gale how to do those tricks with his knife?” 

“She’s really good at throwing them, too,” Finnick provided. “If we play it right, we can either bring her home or at least use her to convince everybody that we’re serious contenders now. She could give us a real marketing boost and change the odds for everybody after her. Peeta as well. He’ll look better next to her, like there are plenty more tributes like that at the ready now. He won’t even have to do much for that, we’ll just tell him to drop a line or two about how everybody’s getting so excited about the Games back home. We’ll have to see who of the two of them is better at working off a script.” 

Haymitch was nodding along. “You’re the punch line of that story, of course, they got excited because you arrived and made everything different,” he said, talking tech now. This was what they’d been doing since last Games, telling the Capitol a story. It was Haymitch’s strength, too, making everything come together. “The chariot surprise is gonna help and bring that home visually, too.”

Finnick nodded firmly and grimly. “We’re the fire district now.”

Cinna and Portia’s was a brilliant idea. Fire would still be the Twelve thing long after they’d retired, Finnick was perfectly sure of that. 

Haymitch could balance the marketing easily, and Finnick would be there to keep him steady, if it all became too much.

Peeta would definitely be sold off for a time if he won, Finnick thought uneasily, leaning back against the footrest, considering that soft face and those shoulders and that smile. No Caramel, no Finnick, but a Haymitch or Calina for sure. Katniss might be as well, depending on what her brittleness screen-tested like. But not for long, he told himself – clung to. The Capitol had last year’s stunning Timber Doyle to play with right now, Finnick and Johanna were both still fairly young, and the new stylist team emphasized fieriness and bravery over sex. They might even be able to take more of a District Two approach with Katniss, make her a focused and stone-faced Career, but he’d promised himself to take the approach most likely to get a child home. He couldn’t save them from prostitution if he didn’t get them home first. It didn’t mean he’d be creating another Caramel. Another Finnick.

There were too many different emotions on Haymitch’s face, the pain of remembering his Games and that girl, the fear of having to see another tribute wearing Maysilee Donner’s pin die, the knowledge that this could be the best Games that Twelve would ever have played. They had the perfect preconditions so far. They’d never get this chance again; Gale was out of the Reaping bowl as of this year, and there was no second Katniss Everdeen. 

“Let’s not expect too much, let’s not do that,” Haymitch breathed. “They could fuck up the interviews and screen-test like frogs, or they die in the bloodbath or they stumble down a hill and break their fucking necks.” 

“Or they won’t,” Finnick reminded him, determined, refusing to consider any of those options just yet. They’d take it as it came along. There was chance in every Games. He’d usually have called that an advantage.

The 74th Hunger Games would still be very different from any other Games that they could otherwise have played. They’d brought Katniss fucking Everdeen who shot her squirrels in the _eye._ Squirrels weren’t much _bigger_ than the eye. 

The train engine hummed faintly underneath them, carrying them closer to the Capitol.


	22. Chapter 21: How To Play The Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first spark of annoyance flashed in Peeta’s eyes. “You said that you and Haymitch work together. Don’t you want to save her life?”_

### Chapter 21: How To Play The Games

The first unpleasant surprise of the Games was waiting for them after the chariot parade, when they made it to the Training Center bar. 

The parade itself had been exactly as big a success as they had hoped it would be; afterwards, Games officials were still congratulating them on their way down from their floor to the bar. If this wasn’t life or death but an actual game, Finnick wouldn’t have been surprised if the victors, who all gathered here traditionally at this time, would have turned around at them and cheered in a show of sportsmanship. As it was, eyes were turning towards them from everywhere, the occasional friend reassuringly patting them on the back here and there, and apart from that, mostly suspicion, where people were trying to gauge if styling really could have changed the Games for Twelve. 

Finnick didn’t focus on any of that, though. None of it mattered the moment the two of them had entered the room, when he scanned the crowd and made out the familiar faces from District Four. The wrong faces. 

“Where is she? Is she alright?” 

Something cold and awful made his stomach churn. The tall, athletic, dark-skinned woman talking to Caramel, with the bright sky blue Capitol tattoos drawing a pattern all over her face, wasn’t Mags. It was Calina, the first Four victor who had won with a trident, who’d been Finnick’s teacher at Games school, singling him out to shown him how to be a killer. 

“She’s going to be alright, kiddo, relax.” Calina had met him halfway through the room, gripping his shoulders hard, anticipating his fear. “She’s getting a little old and she isn’t so quick on her feet anymore, that’s all. There might have been a little incident, but it wasn’t a heart attack. She’s going to have a calm, quiet life in retirement from now on, we’ve all decided it together.” 

“Retirement,” Finnick repeated, not calmed in the least, half stuck on _heart attack._ “ _Mags._ ” Mags didn’t retire. She didn’t have heart attacks. She’d mentored and headed the Games school all her life, sixty-three years of it, since she’d won. 

“More like her ordering us around like before but from a chair, alright,” Calina qualified with a good-natured eye roll, made to loosen him up. “It’ll mostly be me in the primary mentor’s seat from now on, maybe sometimes Caramel if the Capitol requests him anyway.” 

“ _Lucky_ Caramel,” the man himself supplied with no trace of humor in his voice, ignoring Finnick but for an uneasy nod on the way towards Haymitch. 

So Calina had taken Mags’ place in organizing the training and volunteer system. Having won the year after Haymitch, she was much younger than Shania and Clipper, but the district admired her almost as much as Mags, and Games school was practically her life. Add to that that Mags’ issues with speech would have eventually started damaging the district image of the healthy and athletic ocean people. 

But Finnick, who supposed he should have congratulated Calina, ask her polite questions about how those things were working out, hadn’t yet swallowed the news that Mags wouldn’t be in the Capitol with him. She wouldn’t ever be here again. _She made it out._ He should have been glad. 

She’d retired as a mentor – _it wasn’t a heart attack_ – and that meant Finnick might just never see her again. It would just be him with Haymitch, from this Games on, until forever; District Four seemed so incredibly far away, these days. It was as if a pillar was suddenly breaking away, one that he hadn’t even been fully conscious had always been there. It was new and different and the Capitol would call it the end of an era once it caught on, an era Finnick had never considered could end.

* * *

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised that President Snow chose that supposed new beginning to call him into his office and see if Finnick still remembered what a good little victor he was. 

The Reaping had shown already that Snow had detected nothing in his activities in Twelve that warranted punishment. The Games school, his relationship with Haymitch, Snow knew all about that and had decided that it was tolerable or that he didn’t care. But that didn’t mean he’d ever let Finnick learn to walk off heel. 

Forcing himself to take a seat across the President’s desk in a loose way, as if there was a camera pointed at him, Finnick refused to remember how Snow had chosen to make that point the last time he was summoned here. 

“Well, Mr. Odair,” the President said. “It has been far too long since we last talked, hasn’t it?”

His puffy lips were stretched too tight, his smile never reaching his eyes. Something else was gleaming in them, something much more dangerous. Behind him through the windows, the sun loomed brightly in the Capitol sky. None of the skyscrapers obscured the view from here. This city had been built to bow to this office. 

The brightness would have made Finnick’s eyes water, rendering Snow a dark, indecipherable silhouette, if the glass of the window hadn’t been dimmed. It had to be because the President didn’t like the sun shining onto his back, rather than for Finnick’s comfort, since he and Snow were both clear on how Snow owned this world and Finnick only attended as his barely tolerated guest. 

He felt himself wet his lips, but didn’t reply, making sure not to look at Snow in a way that could be constructed as a challenge, or a provocation. They both knew there was nothing he could have said. 

The President watched him for a moment, then folded his hands on the desk with a serious expression. “I’ll skip the pleasantries,” he said. “I sent you on your way two years ago with a very particular set of instructions. I told you to take responsibility for Mr. Abernathy’s past shows of disrespect towards the Capitol, as well as for his continued sobriety. I also pointed out to you how directly your monetary value is tied to your entertainment factor in the media, and how both of you are under an obligation to deliver in this regard, as well. I understand you have been very busy taking care of both these assignments, getting involved on a rather personal level, no less.”

Of course, Snow knew about the two of them – of course. But that didn’t mean Finnick didn’t run cold at the mention, which could always be followed by that kill order, _“But that’s not what I meant when I said that.”_

“I did what you asked me to do,” he hoarsely managed, although that wasn’t what his feelings for Haymitch were about, not on any level, and they both knew that, too. 

He threatened to dissociate in a big way, feeling the whole world shake. 

Snow smiled his shark-like smile again, as if he’d read his mind, satisfied by what he’d seen. 

“And what a fine job you did so far.” He sounded almost sarcastic, his tone too soft and giving to be real. “Let me tell you a few things, Mr. Odair. Let me tell you some things about your family. You must be so desperate for news from back home. 

“Your eldest brother Perri, it seems for example, has surprisingly found himself in the possession of a pregnant new wife, called Malana Odeen, whose last name he has chosen to take as his own. 

“Of course, your parents are currently rather busy worrying about your sister sneaking about with her first boyfriend, in a move I understand they find distressingly reminiscent of your own exploits that same age.”

A holo flickered to life, starting to show Finnick all the people he’d had to leave in order to be able to protect them any longer. Talking to each other, argueing, hugging in that house he’d never seen, evicted from the Victors’ Rock after he left. _Mom, Dad, Perri, Keanu, Coral, Uncle Lauro, Uncle Jaime._

Making absolutely sure that Finnick would never be able to forget.

* * *

The Training Week passed in a flurry of activity. 

His first appointment was penciled into his calendar for just the day after the parade, the evening after his visit at Snow’s. The client was nothing special, but still felt disgusting and still _hurt_. Clients would be open wounds this Games, apparently. Finnick almost preferred it that way, in a sick way. It felt right, more like it should be. There was too much to do through the Training Days to think much about anything, though. In the evenings, it was quick dates in restaurants or clubs, clients as greedy for the paparazzi shots as they were for the quick romps that came afterwards. During the day, it was attending pre-Games events to chat up sponsors along Haymitch, coaching Peeta between training sessions. Peeta had quite a lot of upper body strength and an unexpected flair for camouflage, and Finnick hammered home to him, excessively, ways of using those two things to kill. Finnick planned on that boy getting a good score. He planned on getting him into the big alliance, using Katniss’ presence to make him look like he just happened to be the less dazzling of a pair of Careers, but a Career nonetheless. A Career strategy would make that apparent. 

Katniss herself proved more complicated a tribute. Gritting his teeth, Haymitch went off to have a conversation with Chaff about a possible alliance with his huge Eleven male, but as they’d both expected, he just came back looking worn and unaccomplished. Making friends obviously didn’t come easily to Katniss anyway, though, and they eventually settled on more of a District Two style lone-wolf approach with her. They hoped she’d come across as the distant, determined sort. She’d volunteered earlier than planned to spare her sister. But all she wanted in her life was to win a Games. 

Their two tributes together had the strangest dynamic, a mystery to Finnick until Haymitch cleared it up with his impeccable, intuitive ability to get to the heart of what was going on in people’s heads. Katniss and Peeta were nothing like Raif and Bee, who’d taken strength from the other during their last days. They didn’t compare to Aster and Rodey, either, who might as well have lived in different universes. These two did talk, at breakfast and dinner, as if they couldn’t stop themselves from doing so. Katniss would raise her chin in defiance whenever Peeta addressed her, but it didn’t seem to be just because she was wary of him as an opponent. Peeta would shoot her these furtive looks when he thought she wasn’t looking, and those seemed just angry and lost, angry at something other than her. No, they didn’t know each other well, he would mumble when asked, then look away. Yes, he liked Katniss. Everybody in the district liked Katniss. But those looks of his were filled with so much more meaning than the simple, admiring ones that Finnick’s trainees had shot the girl when she’d crashed Games class that one time, the kid in the starving district who’d figured out how to provide food. 

In his defense, it had taken Finnick a half-naked kiss in a freezing lake and an agonizing sleepless night to understand how he felt about the man he was now in a relationship with, too. 

It was during breakfast of the first training day, the stylists long gone to work on the interview dresses and the next surprise they’d planned for Katniss. Effie was delicately cutting pineapple toast into mouth-sized bits to guarantee minimum deformation of her cheeks while chewing. Meanwhile, Katniss and Peeta broke into an argument about the other one’s odds in the Games. 

Looking back, Finnick couldn’t even determine how it had started. 

“I can’t do anything,” Peeta had said, in that uncaring, self-depreciating way that Finnick would spend all week trying to train out of him. “Unless you count baking bread.” 

Instead of clamping up and refusing to participate in the conversation like Finnick would have expected, surly Katniss used that opportunity to point out that she, like Finnick, had seen Peeta carrying all those heavy flour bags at the market. His self-perception was plain off.

“Peeta can wrestle,” she informed Finnick, almost daring him to disagree, as if it was a race. “He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother.” 

“Is that so?” Finnick had contributed in interest, about to throw Peeta a look of _See? Even another tribute says that_ but like so often, Peeta’s attention was all on Katniss. 

“What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?” There was such obvious self-loathing in his voice that it made Finnick flinch in uncomfortable recognition. 

“There’s always hand-to-hand combat,” Katniss bristled. “All you need is to come up with a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I’m dead!”

“But you won’t get jumped!” Peeta leaned back in his chair, forgetting about his food with a dark, hopeless, frustrated look on his face. “You’ll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows! You know what my mother said to me when she came to say goodbye? As if to cheer me up? She said maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn’t mean me, she meant you!” 

Across the table, Haymitch grimaced around his fork in sympathy; catching his eye, Finnick returned the expression. He wished he could reach out to that boy in some way that would do any good at this juncture, when the kid would probably be dead, no matter his odds. Everybody in District Twelve whispered about what went on in the Mellark household, even Finnick had heard. 

Peeta was on a roll, anyway, face tight and pale. 

“People will help you in the arena,” he told Katniss. “They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you.

“She has no idea.” He rolled his eyes at the adults in a well-timed, scathing gesture full of ancient anger and frustration. “The effect she can have.”

Which was when Haymitch looked at the two of them, saying “Well, then,” followed by, “Well, well, well,” and when the children had left for the training session shortly after, only the two of them left, he turned to Finnick and said, “That boy is madly in love with that girl. Not that she’d notice if you waved it in front of her face.” 

“What?” Finnick replied, startled, automatically looking in the direction they had left, although there was nothing left to see but the closed door. “How do you know?” 

Haymitch threw him a look that said he thought Finnick was immeasurably dense sometimes. 

“They barely know each other,” Finnick defended himself. Haymitch at least had had a girlfriend at that age. All Finnick knew was how to teach children swimming and killing each other with spears. 

They’d never much discussed it in detail, but Finnick had gotten a distinct sense that Haymitch himself had known right away how he felt about Finnick, the second it hit him first. Knowing Haymitch, he had then probably proceeded to bang his head against something hard. 

“Yeah,” Haymitch said, burying his hands in his pockets. “I’m not saying it makes any more sense than my developing a crush on my mentor just because she happened to be present. It’s not like the two of them have grown up as best buddies, right?

“What I _know_ ,” he added after a moment, contemplative, “is that the audience would see it, too, if we found the right way to club them over the head with it. They’ve got a nice chemistry, you gotta admit. Very visual, all those looks and whatnot. Lots of sparks. Not that the girl has any idea. And not that she’d listen if I proposed that kind of spin.”

“How would that even help them in there?” Finnick said after a moment. A frown had appeared on his face when he sat down on a chair, trying to think it through and switching back into Games mode himself, checking out the different angles. 

Love had been played any number of times, obviously, it was such a self-evident twist in a game show full of teenagers. Professing love for another tribute just made you look weak, though, except if you went to prove that you’d fight your beloved to the death. But you could only play that strategy if your tribute was properly briefed. It was a Career move, one that the outliers with their untrained tributes rarely employed – Finnick’s only ever Four tribute had explored it on his own initiative, as it were. Ultimately, asking a child to befriend another just to kill them in the ugliest way possible was too cruel a thing, at that age when those feelings were so precious. The Careers did it because they’d been properly taught that what you did in the arena meant nothing outside of it. 

Haymitch knew all of that too – better than Finnick, probably, after all those years. He looked unhappy now when he grimaced. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I guess let’s just keep an eye out.”

* * *

Four was the expert district on how to make a great impression; it had come into power at the Games not because it was less starved or because it was more deadly, but because Mags knew how to charm a crowd with the best marketing tales. And Mags had taught Finnick, who reminded himself now that he’d been working without Mags for two years, so her sudden absence from his Capitol life shouldn’t make a difference. 

So Peeta was all flair and smiles in his single training session – and if Finnick had encouraged him to flirt with the Gamesmakers a bit in a way that would, to some, be reminiscent of the camera play Finnick himself was known for, the boy would never need to know that he’d just made a promise with that. _Leave me alive, I’ll fill your treasury if you do._ He scored a solid nine. It sealed the agreement with Calina and Cashmere for Peeta to join the Careers. 

Katniss almost gave him a heart attack when she returned from her session in tears. She’d apparently chosen the most inopportune moment of her whole life to lose her temper and fire an arrow at the Gamesmakers’ lunch boar. The only good thing about that, Finnick faintly thought when he heard, was that at least, she hadn’t _missed_. 

That was, until her eleven score was announced. From that moment on, when Haymitch and Finnick left the Training Center to go anywhere, the paparazzi weren’t trying to get shots of Finnick anymore. They were aiming for Haymitch, bombarding him with questions about the girl who seemed to be on fire in more than the literal way. It was less than half an hour after the score announcement that a summons to Flickerman’s show rolled in for both of them. 

The Capitol was in full Games swing. An eleven for the upstart district was exactly what everybody had been hoping for to make things more exciting. Twelve had joined the big league this Games. It was an altogether different kind of Games to play, though Finnick didn’t fool himself into thinking that _different_ meant _better_ or _easier to win_. More attention meant that you would make a bigger target. Everybody in there would be wary of Katniss specifically. 

An anonymous inside source tipped the press off about how the tributes from Two had been friends growing up, unexpectedly entering the arena together when the girl volunteered a year too early. Discussing that tragic circumstance on camera with Flickerman, Finnick listened to the soft cries of pity from the audience, almost feeling the sponsors sliding out of his hands when they made their way back to District Two. 

He should have known that Katniss and Peeta were a little too old and a little too smart to let Finnick and Haymitch become the architects of their fortune without bringing any ideas of their own to the table – even if they turned out to be terribly dangerous ideas. 

“Do you have a minute?” Peeta asked, uncomfortably hovering in the door to the Twelve lounge.

It was the morning after the score announcement, the off-day between training and interviews, used for excessive performance coaching and the last strategy sessions. Effie would swipe both kids away later to teach them how to look better on camera. But neither she, nor the stylists had made an appearance yet, and Haymitch would be undertaking his first shower of the day, his own little display of nervousness and stress. Bright pink dawn sky was illuminating the Capitol skyline outside the windows, breakfast an hour away. 

“Sure, come on in,” Finnick said, looking up from his armchair, where he’d been following a tribute analysis on a morning show. Managing a smile, he tried to chase away the restlessness that came with skipping his morning workouts while he was in the Capitol. 

Peeta closed the door behind himself, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked sickly, as if he’d spent the night awake. Not that Finnick had ever met a tribute who slept soundly at this time. 

Finnick waved at him to take a seat in one of the other chairs, muting the television. 

The baker’s boy sat down uncomfortably, looking like he was very carefully choosing the words he’d outlined in advance all through the night. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, thoughtfully looking at his hands. “About our strategy. About what I’m going to do when I’m in the arena with the pack. I know it’s a little late for a change of plans, but I’ve made up my mind. I want to do it differently.”

“Okay, tell me all about it, and we’ll see,” Finnick said, who wasn’t much fazed by late changes of plans. Barely any Games plan lasted longer than the start of the broadcast, as had last been emphatically proven by Raif and Bee.

Nodding in gratitude, Peeta’s whole body posture changed ever so slightly, as if he’d only now dared to exclaim a whole breath. 

“I get what you’ve been trying to do when you put me with the Careers,” he continued softly, then added almost in a hurry, “and it’s a great plan to improve my odds in there.” Finnick suppressed a snort at him at that – his feelings didn’t have to be spared by a tribute. “But now that I’m in the pack, I think I know a better way of using that to our advantage. Cato – that’s the Two boy – he said after the score announcement that we need to track down Kat right away. I told him I can probably help with that. But I lied. I mean, I guess I could, I know well enough what she’ll probably be good at doing. But I don’t want to do that.”

He paused to lick his lips, while something very unpleasant spread in Finnick’s belly. He leaned forward in his chair. “Peeta,” he said in a warning tone, “what did you do?”

“Nothing.” Peeta rolled his eyes at him. “What else should I have said? That I have no idea how to find her and look incompetent? Anyway, I’ve been thinking ever since. I could lead them to Kat, but I could lead them anywhere else, too, couldn’t I?” 

“Absolutely not,” Finnick immediately said. “You’re not in there to help her. That’s not your job, when you’re not in an alliance with her. You know they’ll turn on you at the first excuse. You’re their in-pack prime target. We’ve talked about that. It’s much too dangerous.”

Peeta firmly shook his head. “No, listen, it’d be almost perfect. How would they ever know, right? I could tell them anything, I could just send them in another direction. If they manage to find her, I could even attack them and distract them so that she can get away, maybe.”

“Yeah, I’m still at ‘absolutely not,’” Finnick said, considering Peeta’s crazy idea of a scheme had just taken a turn from _naïve_ to _openly suicidal._

The first spark of annoyance flashed in Peeta’s eyes. “You said that you and Haymitch work together. Don’t you want to save her life?”

“I want to save your life more,” Finnick replied immediately. “That’s the goal here, Peeta.”

“Great. _Now_ somebody is making that his business,” Peeta muttered. Then he looked up at Finnick again, his face frighteningly determined and clear. “I think you should be all for the idea. It’s true what you and Haymitch have been saying on the television, right? You want to make things better for Twelve. You want more tributes to win.”

“Of _course_ , we want more tributes to win…” Finnick said, a little edgy himself because he was growing so tired of having to repeat that, and also this conversation was ridiculous, but Peeta wasn’t finished.

“Well, everybody keeps saying that Twelve hasn’t ever had a tribute with Kat’s odds, right? Even Effie has said it to me, and Salacia, she’s the one who does my hair, she has, too. It would be stupid if you didn’t do all you can to get her home, and I can _help_ you with that. I know I’m not that great a tribute. You keep telling me I am to make me feel better, thanks for that, but I don’t deserve a victory the way _she_ does. I’d rather help bring her home than survive.”

His voice had wavered on that last bit when the impact of what he’d just said seemed to really hit him – he was talking of dying, at sixteen, when his life had barely started – but his face remained firm. Finnick had a sudden flashback to Aster, although she’d been just the opposite of this boy with his open face and his concern about other people. She’d asked in her weird, emotionless way what would help Twelve the most apart from a victory. _Make a splash._ But she’d really stood no chance at winning; nobody had expected her to get even as far as she had. It was disconcerting how these two children could be so different and still somehow arrive at this point where there wasn’t any hope, in that cold-hearted way. 

Although Finnick remembered all the things Haymitch had said about Peeta, so now he had an inkling that Peeta was thinking in an entirely different direction from Aster. 

“Peeta,” he said softly, feeling wildly out of his depth. “Peeta, I know you have a bit of a thing for Katniss, but that isn’t a reason to throw away your chance to _survive._ ”

Peeta had glanced up at him abruptly at the admission, a faint blotchy blush appearing on his face. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “No, you don’t understand at all, I…”

“You barely know this girl, Peeta,” Finnick fiercely said. 

The blotches on Peeta’s face turned a shy kind of crimson. 

“You don’t understand,” he repeated. “I’m in love with her.”

Finnick just looked at him for a moment, disbelieving, no words coming to mind. 

You didn’t have time to notice a girl’s pretty eyes in the Games; Haymitch had said that to him on the train ride. But that one, Finnick was sure about all by himself, remembering the goosebumps on his skin, the cold, dark corners in his own arena.

Finnick tried to recall the few things he knew about this young man, his relationship with Katniss – there was some kind of story there no matter what, there had to be. But maybe Peeta had no better luck figuring out why he thought the felt that way than Finnick. Finnick tried to picture living in that family, but his own parents had always been great, and the Twelve bakers were that ominous black box that everybody only looked at askew from the outside, never knowing what went on exactly. Maybe the Mellarks bought Katniss’ game. Maybe Mrs. Mellark hit her son, then served him turkey shot by that pretty girl who nursed her sister. 

Maybe Peeta hated his life just as much as Finnick had used to hate his, and now he saw a chance to be a hero. Finnick hadn’t been a volunteer in his Games; his name hadn’t been carved into the Monument of Sacrifice, and there’d been a time when he’d been so jealous of those names of those dead people who’d saved somebody’s life. If he’d had a chance of dying as someone’s hero, he would have taken it, two years ago. But that had been then.

It just meant he couldn’t send Peeta in there just to let him die now. 

There was nothing about that sketchy, dubious plan that Finnick didn’t hate on first sight. Peeta or not, all his instincts screamed ‘no’ at the whole idea. This wasn’t how you played the Games, you learned that quickly as a victor. Not following the rules had terrible consequences in this life that they led; Peeta had no chance of knowing how terrible. 

Finnick took a deep breath to cool himself off, refusing to picture Snow’s long fingers folded on the top of his desk. 

“Have you ever even talked to Katniss before this Games?” he asked, tightly controlled, not ready to stop arguing that point because this was so _ridiculous_. 

Peeta shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“Yeah, it does,” Finnick said. “You want to throw your life away for a girl you’ve barely ever looked in the eye from up close.” 

He wanted to tell him, _That isn’t love, that’s just delusion_. But he couldn’t get himself to say that to a boy whose time might be running out. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Peeta repeated, practically breathing it out as if to remind himself. 

He wasn’t looking at Finnick anymore, determined in that forlorn way – with a quiet dignity that was unexpected and all the more startling for it. 

He was keeping himself intact. The Games hadn’t even officially started, and already he was working on keeping himself intact. 

With a _ludicrous_ plan that could get his whole family killed, if it didn’t kill him first, and Finnick and Haymitch along with it. 

Abruptly, Finnick stood up, unable to look at him any longer. 

“I’ll do you the favor and talk it through with the person who’s actually responsible for bringing Katniss home, unlike us,” he said. “And if Haymitch tells you that we don’t coach tributes to commit suicide, too, we’re going to put this to rest and never talk about it again.”

* * *

Haymitch leaned back in his chair, rubbing his freshly shaven chin. 

“As ways of improving the odds go, it’s not the worst strategy I’ve ever heard,” he said. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Finnick said. 

He gave the other man a disbelieving look, before plopping down on Haymitch’s fancy Capitol four-poster bed. Right now, he didn’t care about who recorded what. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself grimly. They were just discussing their tributes, as proper mentors should. They were yet again doing everything right.

Also Haymitch, who’d needed the whole two years of their acquaintance to get comfortable with the Games strategizing that he was so good at, had chosen this very moment to switch into full-blown marketing mode, apparently, so who knew which way was up and which was down. 

As if too busy contemplating the many ideas appearing in his head, Haymitch just shrugged, seated on the desk chair at the other side of the room, paying him no mind. 

His shirt was half-buttoned, the lapels of the new jacket Portia had designed for him hanging loose; Finnick’s brain chose this improbable moment to notice how _attractive_ he looked, mind at work, like he couldn’t care less who studied him or what they’d think of what they saw. 

“This would be a complete change of plans, obviously,” Haymitch said. “We’d have to figure it all out real quick. Wouldn’t want to contradict something we’ve already established. I mean, we’d have to find a way of explaining to people what’s happening in the arena while the boy’s doing his thing, so we’d need to set it up in the interview.”

“Would we now,” Finnick faintly said, looking at him in bewilderment. 

This plan _wasn’t how the Games was supposed to be played._

Haymitch gave him an unhappy smirk that said that no, he didn’t actually think this was funny. There was nothing positive in this whole strategy premise, but he was willing to consider it anyway because last year, he’d promised Finnick that that would be what he’d always try to do. Which meant he had to do it all the way to get it right. 

A strangely determined look had crossed his face, one that Finnick had never before seen on him – as if a light had been turned on, making everything harsh and easy to see. 

“Think about it,” Haymitch said, hunching forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. “Think about it,” he repeated in a mutter to himself before continuing with a stronger voice. “We send the boy to give the interview as planned. All smiles and honesty. Then he goes into the arena sneaking about with ulterior motives, looking shifty. Not gonna work. At best, nobody gets what he’s doing, which works fine for the likes of Johanna, but not for a tribute who actually stands a chance at sponsors.” 

“And at worst?” Finnick asked, not quite willing yet to follow that train of thought on his own initiative. 

“At worst, somebody cries foul play. People in charge get nervous, rumor makes the rounds we rigged the Games, sending in a tribute to fight for another.” Something flashed across his face for a beat, making him look faintly sick. “We really don’t want that.”

“No kidding,” Finnick breathed. “Just another reason to not let the boy commit fucking suicide.”

“It’s the Hunger Games, you have to reconsider that whole concept,” Haymitch said very sarcastically. Then he took a long breath and continued outlining the situation. “No,” he said. “That’s why it’s so perfect. You gotta announce the whole plan in advance, play it out in the open, right? But then, the Careers learn what he’s up to, too, and that’s that with the alliance, they’d team up and kill him at the bloodbath just to make the point. So instead, we get him up there on the stage with Flickerman, have him talk about how much he loves the girl. Careers will think it’s a ruse. It’s always a fucking ruse. Capitol will eat it up like candy because they always do that, too, and we’ll even have a real story to compete for media attention.” Again he paused, considering. “And now think of how pretty the shock will look on Katniss’ face, real emotion and all instead of that slug impression of hers. Camera close-ups, all of it, beautifully. Reaping Day all over again. She’s honestly nonplussed, she can’t fuck it up.”

“That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard!” Finnick exclaimed. “You’re still talking about letting a tribute with a _nine score_ walk into a death trap!”

“You’re the one who keeps preaching that we need to play the fucking long-term strategy!” Haymitch shot back, just as harshly, and it was a testament to how well they knew each other and how long they’d been doing this already how Finnick was able to hear that there wasn’t any actual malice in his voice. 

Finnick informed him with a look about what he thought of Haymitch’s mental health right now. “Score of _nine_ ,” he repeated, very slowly, so that it would penetrate Haymitch’s unexpectedly thick skull. 

Haymitch clenched his jaw. 

He looked at his hands, as if studying something, visibly swallowing down a lump. 

Much later, Finnick would think he’d traced Maysilee Donner’s blood dripping off his fingers. 

“We can get that girl home with that plan,” he said, grim and resolved. “Think about those odds. _She_ ’s got a score of eleven. Sponsors lining up so we can send her that bow, she never needs to get into the bloodbath. Add to that, we’ll startle an actual on-camera reaction out of her. Then, the boy working on saving her, too, but from the inside. Out of fucking _love_ , so what’s Snow gonna do about it? We can get that kid _home._ ”

“We can get that boy _killed_.”

“One of them will die, either way!”

Haymitch stood up, abruptly, angry. It was so similar to that evening at Swagger’s, when Finnick had told him all his dirty secrets and Haymitch had exploded into fury, too. It made Finnick startle now, too. Except he’d been in hysterics then, thinking he had lost Haymitch for good. Now, despite the discomfort eating at him, he could see that Haymitch was plain upset. Things were happening that he didn’t like, and there was nothing he could change about it. He could just get angry, because everything was out to get them all the time, because he’d allowed himself to care and it _hurt._ That evening, it had meant he cared about Finnick. Now, it meant he cared about both these children, but it was the Hunger Games and only one out of the twenty-four, each of them beloved to somebody, would get to go home. 

Anxious and miserable, Finnick glanced up and watched him pace the room, back and forth before he seemed to realize how useless that was, coming to a halt and rubbing his palm across his face in a resolute gesture. 

He turned towards Finnick, towering, although Finnick would have a whole foot on him if he stood up. He didn’t want to stand up, though. He’d never wanted to loom over Haymitch less.

“It’s not a suicide plan,” Haymitch told Finnick, calmly. “If the girl dies, everybody who sponsored her will jump ship and leave the money with him. It’d be like a substitute victory. All he has to do is two-time the Careers and the audience for a couple of days. The moment it gets hot, he gets out. Bit more dangerous than we planned, but basically still the same imperative. He’ll be on his own, out there still trying to help Katniss, everybody will take it for that grand romantic story.” 

“You’re expecting a lot from Peeta, playing everybody like that at once. He’s not a Career. He doesn’t have any camera training.”

“Tell me honestly that you think he couldn’t pull it off.”

Finnick sighed. 

“What if Katniss decides to get rid of the threat and take him out by herself?”

They couldn’t let her in on it, that much was for sure. She just couldn’t work with a script. Never mind that she would rightfully hate everything about that plan, and Finnick was very much with her on that. 

But Haymitch was shaking his head. 

“She won’t.”

“And you would know that because…”

“Couldn’t ever show her face again in the district if she makes it home, and she knows it.” Then he muttered, incomprehensibly, “Too great a debt.”

Finnick buried his face in his hands, gripping his hair for a moment in an attempt to chase that horrible headache out of his temples that was suddenly creeping up. _Really? That’s what I get this Games, headaches?_ He’d had worse reactions. But he also still couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. There was no single bit that he liked about it. 

It wasn’t even because it was Peeta, who’d _smiled_ at him on the street. It was the _whole plan._ It made his skin scrawl.

“Listen to me, Finnick,” Haymitch said. “This is exactly what we’ve been trying to do. Start going somewhere with those kids. Now we have this chance of going somewhere big. I’ve been doing this for twenty-four fucking years. This is the best odds it gets. We have a shot at a fucking romance. Everybody always wants a romance. And it ain’t the Careers where it’s all fake and they’re just setting up their final kill, it’s gonna be _real._ ”

Glancing up at Haymitch again, Finnick looked at him, really looked – how sure he was of himself suddenly, how absolutely he knew that there was no flaw in his logic. He’d thrown himself at it for real and he _knew_ this game, inside out. He’d opened himself up to that again, because Finnick had asked. And he was doing it sober. He hadn’t even been able to talk about the tributes’ meals one-and-a-half years ago without needing a drink. 

He didn’t look like there was enough free space left in his mind right now to remember his longing for alcohol.

Finnick hated everything about this. It went against how the Games was supposed to be played, even if it wasn’t cheating, strictly speaking. But Haymitch using the force field to survive hadn’t been cheating, either – strictly speaking. He knew, objectively, that Haymitch was right. Snow wouldn’t do anything about something that the Capitol fell in love with. But that wouldn’t automatically make Snow a fan. 

It left a dark, foreboding, sick feeling in his stomach. He knew he wouldn’t veto it. But a big part of him kept demanding that he should.

* * *

_The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve._

Effie and the stylists were still celebrating when Haymitch and Finnick made their goodbyes, the children off to lie awake in bed before the big day long since. The interviews had been a perfect success, topping even the parade. Cinna’s dress had transformed Katniss into all the fashion scene would talk about all summer season, exactly the right mix of exotic and dazzling and fierce for the audience to nod along when Peeta revealed how he felt about that girl. _Of course. That makes sense. She’s meant to be loved._

Every screen was dominated by Peeta and his declaration of love, by Katniss and the jolt that had run through her that moment, eyes wide, stopping herself from raising from her chair. Other catchphrases were making the rounds. _The Girl On Fire. District Twelve’s Doomed Love._ Haymitch had been right. The Capitol had eaten it up. Meanwhile, Calina had released the news of Mags’ retirement from the Games, and everybody was talking of how they were witnessing a new generation starting to bloom, of how Finnick and the changes he’d prompted in Twelve might be the first glimpse at an entirely new kind of Games. 

Haymitch had slipped into Finnick’s room alongside him instead of his own. Everybody would think they still had Games prep to finish – still a good excuse. He sank on the chair at the small desk, rubbing his face. 

“Fucking dirt of the districts,” he muttered, withdrawn and shaky and like he hated carrying all that responsibility already, because the press had it wrong – this was his brain child, Finnick just looked better on the posters, tagging along. All his life, Haymitch had dealt by retreating, but he’d closed that door for now. 

“Would you…” Finnick started saying, uncertain, because everything about this was leaving him anxious, agitated, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He trusted Haymitch that he knew what he was doing, he told himself. He did. 

Haymitch glanced up. “I could probably stay an hour or two, none of them would think anything of it tonight,” he said. 

“Yes,” Finnick said, and Haymitch followed his eyes to the bed with an expression that seemed uncertain in a different way. 

They undressed, slipping under the covers together. Finnick wasn’t even sure why he wanted this right now. They’d never done much with each other in the Capitol before. There were too many bugs and even cameras, everywhere, and he could constantly feel the touch of his clients’ hands on himself, lingering, never quite going away. His own hands on himself, that night back when with Snow. Haymitch hadn’t made any move like this last Games. But Finnick was uneasy, and he was hurting, and he wanted it _gone._ He wanted home and Haymitch back.

“Touch me more?” he asked, because he couldn’t get a clear read on his own feelings right now. But it was Haymitch who leaned in, kissing him another time and replying, “No. Don’t do that. You do your thing. You make the calls.” And after a moment of hesitation, “Please. I want that, too.” 

Yes, it was arousing to hear, sharp like a blade, that sudden, unexpected _I want._ Haymitch had never asked for anything before. Immediately, a dozen questions appeared in Finnick’s mind. What did he like about it? What did it mean to him? There were a thousand different kinds of submission, and Finnick was intimately acquainted with all. He could find something to deliver for any. Did Haymitch want him to push him around? Did holding still for Finnick remind him of being restrained? Did he want to be ordered or asked, did he want to be made to beg? He’d said _please._

But it was the first time Haymitch had asked, sounding just as needy as Finnick felt, so this was not the time to talk, and they’d done this many times before. No matter that he didn’t understand where such a preference could be coming from, when it would have twisted something in his guts if the situation was reversed. 

He pushed Haymitch into the sheets underneath him, rubbing himself against him and kissing him and clutching his hair the way they both liked, listening for Haymitch exclaiming those deeper breaths that were almost moans. He was just as eager to answer the kisses. His hand fell on Finnick’s upper arm to run up and down in that way he sometimes did, but it just froze after a while, as if he forgot about it. 

“Turn around?” Finnick whispered, breathlessly, never quite letting go when Haymitch turned to face the wall, so Finnick could press up against him from behind, rub his cock against the crease of Haymitch’s ass in that low-friction way that he’d found out he favored the most. “That good?” Haymitch made a helpless sound, muttering “Shit” when Finnick reached around to tug at his cock, fully hard and leaking precome. It was a great way of touching a lot at once, which always did it for Haymitch and which Finnick certainly appreciated, too. It was a great way of feeling in control of everything.

It was a way of losing sight of who your partner was, facing away, only hearing him breathe into your ear – it could be anyone, from the past. It was in the Capitol, soft and smooth mattresses and expensive, feather-light blankets, delicately scented in that distinctive way. 

“Shit,” Haymitch was suddenly muttering, as if his breath was becoming too short, and that wasn’t an expression of desire anymore. “Shit, I need to… fuck.” 

He’d scrambled away from Finnick in the same instance, an instinctual motion meant to push Finnick of him and to put space between them at the same time; Finnick let go as if he’d been burned, all arousal dying off, replaced by a jolt of adrenaline and shock. 

“Did I… is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s fucking peachy… Fuck.” 

Haymitch’s swearing was a well-measured cadence, often partly meant for his own amusement. Finnick could see that something was awfully wrong from how it had turned so repetitive and violent. Haymitch was breathing harshly, holding onto the pillow he’d found himself lying on, desperately trying to get a grip. 

“I’m so sorry,” Finnick breathed, near panicked. He wanted to reach out, then stopping himself when he realized how shitty an idea that could turn out to be. 

Haymitch had always claimed he didn’t have reactions like this. But that had obviously not figured into the equation Finnick’s _immense_ stupidity of not applying his _brain_. He’d never quite bought into that. 

Shit, he was so _stupid_ , he should have somehow seen this _coming._

“’s fine,” Haymitch muttered, rapidly reclaiming control over his breath, already looking less shaken than he had a second before. The sex was done with, though. That much was clear. “Shit. Didn’t see that coming. Bit of a scare. Fuck.”

Now he mostly seemed annoyed, dropping his face into the pillow for a bone-tired, frustrated groan. 

Finnick sat up in bed, the sleek Capitol blanket sliding off him. He watched Haymitch, on high alert, watching for the smallest sign to propel him into action and help. He felt sick. He didn’t understand how this had happened without him seeing it come. His own experience made him hesitant to just reach out, knowing if there was any time when he needed to wait for Haymitch to give him a signal first, it was now. 

This was where you sat it out, waiting and seeing if there woud be shaking and vomit, once the adrenaline wore off, or if it would just fade away. Anything could happen. That was what he knew for sure. And he just hated that he knew so much about how those things worked. 

In a corner of his mind, he’d been thinking that being together like this would make things feel less terrible, in that supposed new era with that scary new strategy, where he felt like he was falling, and he didn’t know where they would land. He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, at the Games. He had no idea. 

Instead, Finnick just felt more lost, unable to help Haymitch, while that feeling that they were making some sort of mistake just kept growing in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the long delay. Real life... happened. Then, it happened some more. On the upside, I'm already working on chapter 22. Until then, I hope you enjoyed this one. :)


	23. Chapter 22: A Swimmer In A Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you fucking_ stupid _, little stupid girl?” Chaff viciously hissed, almost out of his chair while an empty bottle slipped out of his hand and crashed to the ground._

### Chapter 22: A Swimmer In A Storm

The tributes rose early the morning of this Games. Pale and worn and maybe moribund, they made their goodbyes and boarded the Hovercraft to the arena, wherever in Panem it may have been set up this year. 

Once they were gone, there was suddenly not a lot to do anymore. The Games broadcast started as early as seven, but in the Capitol, Games season was considered a holiday, a time of celebration, and mandatory viewing was regarded a privilege. The Capitol rose slowly, tuning in one by one. Only by nine-thirty did the Games channel pompously show Templesmith and Flickerman marching into their respective studios like champions of the Capitol circus, majestic theme songs heralding their entrance. Reporters expectantly recapped district statistics, tribute analyses, not breathlessly excited just yet, but gearing up for it. Last minute pre-Games bets were placed. If you filed a winning bet before the bloodbath, you made a lot more money, and the victor wasn’t the only thing you could guess: You could bet on who’d die first and how long until the first death, who’d reach Final Eight, tribute or district, how many survival deaths there would be, who’d get the best sponsorship but still perish. Twelve was in the lead on that last one all morning. 

After the victors had been filmed entering Mentor Central as a group, Finnick and Haymitch both made sure to show their face in the foyer another time, supplying paparazzi footage, each separately stumbling into the right reporter of the right magazine as if by accident and dropping tantalizing lines too inspirational to not work into an article; every extra moment of showtime would be worth its weight in gold. This was when Finnick smoked his only cigarette of the year; it gave him an excuse to enter the smoking area behind the delivery gates, where the addict journalists couldn’t believe their luck. It was where he saw Brutus, biting down on a cigar as if he wasn’t just as big a health freak as Finnick, shaking his head in a sorrowful way and telling his reporter of choice what a shame it was that his male would have to kill his best friend in the end. But of course, he would; that was understood, it was the way of Two. Finnick leaned against a wall and blinked into the sun, letting his beauty and this year’s media pull work for him. Mooching that cigarette off the _Trophy’_ s editor in chief, he sighed and said it was hard, looking at Peeta and being reminded of his own love affairs. He assured her in a confidential voice that leaving the Capitol had, more than once, broken his heart. Then, he assured her that she could quote him on that. 

You weren’t supposed to give these interviews, but everybody with a shot at media attention gave them anyway; every mentor learned which rules you were supposed to break and which were carved in stone. This one, you broke, if you could. 

At nine-fifty, the tributes had to be waiting in the tube rooms, somewhere in Panem, alongside their stylists, and Cinna and Portia would hopefully find the right last words for their kids – possibly the last advice that would ever reach them in their rapidly expiring lives. 

When Finnick made it back to the Mentor Central floor, Haymitch was waiting for him outside next to a Peacekeeper guard, giving him a small nod and falling into step on the way in. Down the console rows in the dimmed room, the tribute screens still brightly blue and empty, Chaff and Seeder had taken their seats, Chaff next to Twelve and Seeder next to Ten – not like Chaff had conceded to do it last year. Finnick hardened his face. He fell back a step, allowing Haymitch to pick his seat first; but their sponsor potential lists had already been stored on their assigned consoles, and Haymitch plopped into his usual spot. He didn’t look at Chaff. Chaff didn’t look at him. 

Chaff and Seeder started talking quietly to each other after a moment; Chaff’s display was already lit with notes. Everybody knew that those two only got along when they needed to, when there was a tribute to save, and Chaff was mentoring that strong boy with the high score this year. 

Finnick took his own seat, reaching for his headset and getting his part of the console online with a bit more ease than most of the victors on this side of Central had, having won so young and having gotten so used to the computers. If everything went right, Haymitch and he would be calling potential sponsors all day. A green light lit up and told them that Effie had connected to their console from her office, at the ready to send over relevant intel on the betting and media situation. He knew that not one, but three Avoxes were lurking at their backs, expecting more demands than usual from Eleven and Twelve. It was almost like mentoring for Four.

The monitors suddenly flickered to life, the bluescreens replaced, one by one, by live footage of empty launch tubes, slick and sterile, death elevators that would carry the children to be executed for their ancestors’ sins. 

Finnick tried to relax into his seat; he tried to breathe into his belly, concentrate on that. 

“Tell me you really know how to spin this one,” he breathed low enough for only Haymitch to hear, who turned to throw him a glance, leaning in readily. 

“I really know how to spin this one,” he said, but it didn’t make Finnick feel any better, anyway. He still didn’t see it. It scared him how he had to trust in Haymitch to see it. 

_“Stop me before I can do something stupid.”_ Haymitch had said that on the train. Finnick tried telling himself that this wasn’t what he’d meant; they both wanted to bring this one home.

A voice rang through the speakers, asking them to take their seats; it was nine fifty-eight.

* * *

On Day Three, Katniss was stumbling through the woods, eyes glazed and dry lips starting to crack, when she raised her head to look roughly in the direction of the camera with none of a Career’s media prowess but all of an outlier’s desperation, begging Haymitch to send water for her. 

“So send her water,” Finnick said, because yes, it left a bad impression if a tribute needed sponsorship to get basic survival sorted in an arena that was full of resources, but that didn’t matter if your tribute got too dehydrated to fight and died. However, Haymitch reached out to still his hand, as if Finnick might make that call above his head. 

Maysilee Donner’s pin hovered above them day and night. Haymitch had taken to vanishing in the bathroom, where he vigorously scrubbed his hands and washed his face. 

“Not yet,” he said now. “She ain’t that far from that creek. Bit of luck, she’ll realize how close she is once there’s no parachute.”

One screen over, Peeta was laughing at a joke that the Four female had made, helping her start a fire at the now fortified Career pack camp. He was smart enough to try and not befriend Beetee’s boy, the odd kid with the explosives, scheduled to die first once the pack broke apart, buying Peeta buffer space. Across the camp, the Two male and female were ignoring each other and not ignoring each other at once, playing out a whole story so skillfully, without words, just with looks. _I don’t want to have to kill you. But I will._

Peeta hadn’t been sent any gifts as of yet. That was mostly because Peeta hadn’t needed any gifts; the Careers had it all this year. 

It was the third day, two days after the bloodbath, the day when the outlier tributes who’d made it so far but without supplies, often curled up somewhere and just never got up again. The death toll had been high this time around. Eleven children were dead as of Day One. Hopefully, that meant this Games wouldn’t drag on for weeks. 

Katniss had – _of course_ – foregone all advice, engaging in the bloodbath just to immediately be targeted by the Two female with her ridiculously precise throwing knives, barely making it out but gaining a sheet of plastic, a hunting knife, a garishly colored survival bag in return. It meant they hadn’t had to waste any sponsorship money on her yet, either. The sooner they managed to gather enough and send her that bow, the cheaper it would be to pay – before the prices skyrocketed at Final Eight. 

Peeta had managed to wound the Six male at the bloodbath before Glimmer, from One, took that tribute out, and then he’d put his hand on that Eight female’s forehead and shushed her while he slit her throat, left to die after the pack found her campfire at night. He had his share of fans now, too. Everybody now thought of him as a particularly kind Career, looking all the more competent and determined when he fought. You had to be good at what you did, if you could afford to be like that. 

The audience had oo’ed and aah’ed every time he made clear that he was secretly trying to lead the pack away from Kat, although the Careers hadn’t caught on to it yet – they would though, given time. Katniss herself didn’t know, attempting to throw the audience a sparse smile when she spied on the pack from a tree – she probably meant to convey that she was on to them now, though from the outside, it had just looked shaken and grim and unsure. 

Last year’s arena had been a garbage dump; the blizzard Games the year before, they called the snow globe arena these days. The 71st had featured barren city ruins covered with moss, and Annie Cresta’s arena had been a majestic canyon, until that dam collapsed and transformed the desert into the sea in a well-planned, terrible display of Gamesmaker power. So this year, Seneca Crane had turned traditional. With its plush forests and those endless fields and that lake, the arena appeared to have been made for Eleven and Twelve. It was as if it had been made for Katniss Everdeen and the boy Finnick knew now was called Thresh; he couldn’t help but think of the Careers as decoration pieces, although he knew how dangerous that view could turn out to be. 

He couldn’t stop hating this Games; his skin still crawled every time he looked at the screens.

* * *

Games success was a two-edged sword for the likes of Finnick. 

On the one hand, the President couldn’t send Finnick on all too many public dates anymore once Twelve had skyrocketed into the spotlight; the journalists would document it all and speculate about why he’d stopped taking care of his promising tribute like a proper, dedicated mentor should – especially one supposed to support his addict partner. It would shake up the betting pool; the media’s screams for explanations would create the kind of attention that Snow didn’t favor. On the other hand, popularity went up and so did demand, and Snow had made so very clear to Finnick that Games success would never be a way out. 

So appointments were rescheduled by the minute; no day passed that Finnick didn’t receive three, four, five quick notes carried by Avoxes, juggling dates, shortening stylist time and adding it again after Cherry complained, replacing addresses of dance clubs and restaurants with those of hotel rooms and private retreats, replacing clients greedy for the prestige with the ones who just wanted a fuck. It was as good a confirmation that they were doing well as any, Finnick supposed. Soon though, he was tired of sex, tired of hurting, all fucked out. He kept expecting that his body would turn on him, make him flinch at the wrong time, or that he just wouldn’t get it up out of the blue, though it never happened like that; he asked Cherry if she had pills for that, too, not just wake-up medication, but she just laughed at him, in that forced and startled way that meant that she’d have to acknowledge what those dates really were if she took the request as anything but a joke, and she could never do that. 

Finnick always was busy; Peeta could start needing him at any time. His world narrowed down: to being touched, to following cues or orders on where to lick and how to thrust, to trying to get breakfast in, to eating power bars and sugar cubes instead. To curling up in his seat next to Haymitch, preferring his proximity over a real bed, falling asleep with Haymitch’s hand rubbing his shoulder. There was no attention left to pay to Chaff, who showed up very drunk repeatedly starting Day Two, but Finnick just was too exhausted and anxious to enforce his rules and Chaff, probably, was too sick with concern for his tribute to remember them. One afternoon when Chaff was sweating out liquor like a distillery, Haymitch just stood up and left and vanished for hours without saying anything to either of them; when Finnick went after him although he should have been on his way to a client, he only ran into Caramel, who tightened his face, then said he would take care of it. Chaff was mostly sober the day after that. 

Katniss was targeted by fire balls because the Gamesmakers were _assholes_ , and she was as good as dead, but then she ran and ducked and made it out somehow with a burn mark smoldering on her leg as big as a man’s palm. They lost precious money to get that crazily expensive medicine to her. But she did find water and she did find food, while the Careers found her, Peeta’s attempts to lead them astray foiled. She tried to rest on a tree, and he tried to rest at its foot, finally convincing the last Capitol citizen of how he felt when he blinked up at the branches all through the night, wrapped in his sleeping bag with that pale face and that lost expression. Finnick praying, telepathically telling the screen, _Don’t do a stupid thing. Don’t get yourself killed. Not now. Not for a girl. It’s you or her._

The little dark-skinned Eleven girl appeared in the trees, the one everybody had forgotten when she ran away from the bloodbath and hid in the trees. 

On the channel, faintly ringing through Central, Flickerman hurried to remind the audience that this girl’s name was Rue and she was twelve and she’d had a surprise score of seven that stemmed clearly from her ability to hide very effectively. Katniss noticed her. Rue pointed at the tracker jacker nest above Katniss’ head. 

“Are you fucking _stupid_ , little stupid girl?” Chaff viciously hissed, almost out of his chair while an empty bottle slipped out of his hand and crashed to the ground. 

Seeder muttered something at him, something very calculating and very composed, and he angrily slumped back down. Seeder leaned forward, elbows on the console, very focused now. She never gave up on a tribute, no matter their age. No matter how hopeless they were. 

Although Chaff’s male was far away, camping out securely in his territory that he’d claimed in the wheat field, left alone by the Gamesmakers after he’d satisfied the crowds with his two bloodbath kills, Chaff reached for another bottle and took an uneasy sip. However, Chaff wasn’t like Haymitch had used to be and Chaff functioned quite well, and it would be dangerous to underestimate him now just because he was slurring his vowels. 

Rue Capaldi had charmed the audience in her interview. The Games channel scrambled to recap it all through the night, while Katniss worked on sawing off the nest, now clearly with a plan in mind. They showed the girl jumping from tree to tree on silent feet, the slingshot she had built, her big brown eyes, her startling street-smartness. Katniss saw Primrose in her, every inch of her. It was so obvious, in that unexpected way after Katniss had refused to display clear emotion on screen for so long, that Finnick and Haymitch never even had to nudge the reporters towards that connection, her love for her sister all over the screens for everybody to see. Her blackmail list laid out for Snow.

Finnick hated it, every second of it. You didn’t bond with cute little children in the Games. You died if you bonded with cute little children in the Games, and they were in this to _win_. 

Haymitch sat through all of it with stoic, well-practiced calm, expecting nothing and expecting everything. 

The siege imploded, courtesy of Rue. It would be all the channel recapped for days. Katniss cut down the nest, and she was smart about it too, calculating the risks. Experts explained what was happening to those kids, the bloating stings, the screams not just of pain but terror, the hallucinations, the way they would be feeling like the ground was shaking underneath their feet. An invisible, cold hand reached into Finnick’s chest and squeezed until he thought he couldn’t breathe; he knew that Peeta would side with Katniss now. Her scrambling away. Scrambling back, prying that bow out of that slaughtered One’s hand. Peeta confronting Cato, the Two male. Screaming at Katniss that she should run, making everything clear about his Games plan to everybody except maybe Katniss, who’d been stung by the wasps. He should never have survived that confrontation with Cato, but he did. Fleeing down the stream, stumbling, fighting, that terrible wound on his thigh still gushing. At first, Finnick was sure it was the artery. But then, it couldn’t have been the artery. Five minutes in, he was still on his feet, coloring the water red and catching bacteria, instead of bleeding to death. 

That was the moment Finnick shook off that stupor, mentally returning to Mentor Central and getting on the phone, not getting off until he’d called every potential sponsor he still had up his sleeve. He had money at the ready for that boy. He didn’t have enough. Half an hour later, he thought he’d promised one of those sponsors to fuck her for free, but he couldn’t remember who. An hour in, he had the money. Peeta had settled down to rest against a rock near the stream, face white, breathing too hard; his life statistics reported arrhythmia. The gift, powerful antibiotics and bandages saturated with salve, dropped down onto the ground next to his feet. He looked up, wet his lips, whispered, “Thank you” at the sky. And then, all districts bless that boy, he added a promise: “I’m gonna save her yet.” If Finnick had still had space in his mind left for a sense of humor, he might have called Effie to ask if anybody in Flickerman’s studio audience had fainted at that. The Capitol was celebrating itself and how much they loved this Games – Peeta, Katniss, Cato, Clove. 

The field was down to ten surviving tributes. The Careers unsurprisingly stuck together after Peeta had been expelled from the pack; the Three boy was still in, now that they needed the man power, being down to four, but Finnick couldn’t help but think that the boy had missed his chance – either he’d blow up the entire pack soon, since clearly something like that had to be his play, or he was dead. Thresh was still holing up in the wheat field, where he started losing more attention and screen time by the minute, but from the way Chaff was watching the screens and stats like a hawk, he and the boy were both on their end calculating a careful mixed strategy of half engaging and half waiting out the field. Peeta recovered, slowly, in a cave that he had found; Finnick sent him not a loaf of bread but a cheap little bag full of berries to show him what was edible in the brushwork close by. The boy spent a whole day painting a beautiful likeliness of Katniss onto a cave wall with mud, and all the cameras were on that. Sponsors called Finnick, for the first time, instead of him calling them. Some of Katniss’ switched to Peeta – some in a calculated move to support her, some because they just liked him best. One person who called was an artist who didn’t have any money but blabbed at Finnick about how that talent had to survive, how he’d get Peeta into an art academy after. Finnick encouraged him to start a networks website for sponsorship donations, but was ultimately happy when he got him to hang up. 

The Ten male, an unassuming fourteen-year-old mostly ignored, lurked at the edges of the woods and built inexpert traps – there’d been tributes before him who had won that way, some barely older than him. The Five female kept stealing from the Careers. She was a slim, mousy redhead, sharp-faced, zero kills or confrontations, but despite her non-aggressive approach, she clearly remained one to watch. Finnick knew she reminded Haymitch of the late Ralda Cavalera; pain sometimes crossed his face when he looked at that screen. 

Katniss had slipped into unconsciousness after the jacker tracker stings, and little Rue with her big eyes and her fragile bird features made her second cameo like a movie star. Instead of killing her right then, she took care of her wounds, flat-out refusing to play the Games properly like only twelve-year-old innocence could prompt. Seeder serenely made notes, getting Chaff’s input on everything quietly, as if it didn’t matter that they never agreed. 

“What are we making of this?” Finnick asked. More than a little lost about it all, he was staring at Katniss and Rue sharing a goosling leg, wondering, contemplating, trying to figure out this new alliance and how it had broken Katniss’ lone Career image wide open. His eyes wandered from Katniss’ screen above Haymitch’s head to the main channel screen further up on the wall. It showed the same image but with the usual two-seconds lag that allowed the cutting room to edit out political statements and the occasional tribute who suddenly leaned over to puke. 

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” Haymitch replied after a contemplative moment of pause. “Lone-wolf routine or not, it’s good for people to see her showing a little bit of heart again…”

“I can make sure they tie it in with how she volunteered for Prim again, when they’ll spring me on the way to my limousine…”

“Yeah. Make it subtle, though, let them figure that one out themselves.” Haymitch nodded at him. “So it continues the theme, that’s good. As long as she doesn’t start collecting strays on principle, and I don’t see who’d be left in there to collect, it’s probably not gonna damage her image. Plus from what Trinket says, looks like the media are liking the twist.”

Finnick didn’t ask what it would do to Katniss if she had to kill Rue once Rue finally attempted to backstab her, but Haymitch wouldn’t have known an answer to that question, anyway. Rue had missed her best shot already. It was ten tributes in, nine kills to go. Peeta or Katniss. Katniss or Peeta or somebody else. District Two really wanted this one for themselves. 

On Day Seven, Peeta broke camp, starting to make his way off the edge of the arena before the Gamesmakers could find a way to force him back into the fight – the cave drawing had bought him a day in that way. In a move that beautifully symbolized everything that Finnick and Haymitch had tried to do for Twelve in the Games, Katniss and Rue laid out an involved plan to attack the Careers. No matter what came of it, Finnick knew that this one would be replayed for years, not just in Games recaps, but also in documentaries about Twelve and the two of them; he could just bet that one of those was going into pre-production right about now. Mockingjays were singing their song in the trees, the same breed Katniss was so proudly wearing on her chest. They spread those girls’ theme through all the arena; the camera caught how a startled Thresh looked up when he heard, recognizing it from home, on his way through his wheat. 

Rue climbed tree after tree, collecting branches, building fires, lying in wait to set them off. 

Peeta was marching through the woods, never knowing how closely he passed Adriano by – the Ten male – hiding behind a tree bark when he heard Peeta coming. 

Katniss crouched behind the brushwork, spying on the pack, trying to figure out what booby traps she wasn’t understanding yet when Five’s sneaky Eleanor Weed returned to do her morning dance. Stealing apples and dried beef strips like every day, she accidentally spelled it all out for her opponent from Twelve. 

They didn’t have to worry about Katniss’ screen-tests anymore. Katniss was all in her element, all focus, all fight. 

It was sheer dumb luck that she never got close enough to the pile to be killed by the explosion, since she had no way of estimating how far she needed to stay away. The shockwave thundered through the arena, rippling through all of the field and reverberating when it bounced off the force fields in the sky to resonate back. Kat was blown off her feet, her ear-drum likely ruptured, blood running down her face and neck. Eleanor skirting to a halt on her way through the forest, looking over her shoulder, then running in the opposite direction as fast as her feet could carry her. 

Bumping face-first into Peeta, who grabbed her shoulder, before she could fall. 

“Whoa there,” he said, healthy and recovered, but out of breath. 

Katniss crawling into the brush at the edge of the forest, just in time for the Careers to break out of the woods, and Cato viciously breaking Three’s neck who arguably could be blamed to have set this one up. 

Marvel, from One, smarter than his mates, not having followed them to the camp but coming to a halt for a moment, narrowing his eyes at the smoke of that one fire, then the other fire, mind at work and setting off to chase after Rue. He gave up soon; Rue gave tail the moment she heard movement, like a squirrel up a tree. But it was clear he’d found a neat little way to distinguish himself from Cato and Clove, thinking on his feet, starting to go it alone. He did need that, at this point, if he wanted to win, and he was smart enough to know.

Eleanor and Peeta, staring at each other. Waiting for the other to attack first. 

Peeta’s hand crept towards his back pack, built out of a sackcloth that had come with one of his gifts. 

The Five’s eyes flickered there. 

“Don’t panic, alright?” Peeta said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not going to kill you. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t know about you, but something just happened over there, and I’d rather not kill anybody if I don’t even know how many tributes are still in the Games. That would be very stupid of me, wouldn’t it?” 

Eleanor was breathing hard, near savage. She glanced at his hands again. 

“The boy from Three,” she said, licking her lips. “You know him, you were with them at first. He, he must have made it all explode. I think that’s what he planned all along. I thought he’d kill you all that way in the end.” 

On the other screen, Katniss crawled deeper into the brushwork, like a wounded animal. Next to Finnick, Haymitch alternated between looking at her, looking at Peeta, looking at her life stats, trying to figure out if there was any help that could and needed to be sent. They still had money left. They’d never used it for a bow.

“The pack would see the parachute,” Finnick muttered, and Haymitch nodded, removing his hand from his headset. 

“Thank you,” Peeta breathed. 

Another moment of stand-off, before he moved again to reach for his back pack, slow and measured motions made to not startle that vigilant, near-panicked girl, like a wild animal almost ready to gnaw off her own leg. Eleanor hadn’t talked to anybody since the beginning of the Games, and it showed; she’d been on her own ever since she’d bumped into Katniss at the bloodbath, when the two of them had silently agreed to let the other go.

“Just putting this down, okay?” Peeta said to her. His face was all placating, all open honesty. _I don’t want to kill anybody. Let’s make an alliance, you and me. Let’s not play their Games. Let’s be smart._ “Just putting it down and then we can talk.” 

“Okay,” Eleanor agreed, cautiously, eyes never leaving his face. 

“Here,” Peeta said. “I collected some berries we could share.”

Then he moved quicker than Eleanor could have seen coming, than the audience would have seen coming, although Finnick had, a little bit. The knife was in Peeta’s hand, instead of a sachet. It penetrated underneath her sternum, pointing upwards, piercing her lungs and possible her heart. It was as if he held her upright, for a moment. Eleanor stared in his face, close enough that Peeta should be feeling her breath on his face, blood bubbling out of her mouth and sprinkling his lips. Close enough to kiss. He stared back at her, suddenly pale.

“I’m so sorry,” Peeta whispered, mouth opening and closing as if he’d meant for more words to spill out but they’d gotten lost on the way. She fell lifelessly to the ground, just dead meat now. 

The cannon fired. 

In the brush at the explosion side, Katniss didn’t even flinch at the sound, lying curled up like a child. There was a worrisome implication in that, saying that she hadn’t heard the sound. 

“Fuck,” Haymitch breathed, rubbing his face as if he just had no more energy left. 

Finnick’s hand was already reaching for the phone dial. He had a lot of sponsor calls to make, yet again; any number of people only got interested after a tributes’ first proper first-degree murder. 

That boy was _on._

* * *

Chaff and Haymitch hadn’t said a word to each other, not one, through the whole time their girls had sat together up on the screens, talking to each other, whispering, breaking bread and sharing stories from home. Eleven’s monitor mirroring Twelve’s, displaying the same camera feed. Occasionally, Seeder had leaned past her partner, saying to Haymitch, “Let’s see how long this lasts before we talk pooling,” or, “Mine is good with slingshots, how is yours with knives?” But Chaff had only ever raised his chin slightly when they did that, not looking up from his console. Haymitch had never looked at him, in return, answering those questions blandly and in a very polite voice, like people working a business transaction while having a rule about private interactions at work. Chaff always held a bottle in his hand, dangling it between his legs. It made Finnick remember how the strong tribute last year had made Chaff drink more, too, while the starved children in the snow globe two years back hadn’t bothered him much, as if the hope was worst of all to bear. 

Although Twelve had the worst district statistics in the Games technically, with only two victors, the last Eleven who had won a Games had been Chaff at the 45th, their district waiting to achieve victory again five years longer. Both Chaff and Seeder had been mentored by Old Pots, who was fragile and senile these days. Neither Chaff, nor Seeder had ever saved a child’s life. 

Their little girl Rue hadn’t even made it to the third bonfire yet before the shockwave hit. Marvel had been roaming the forest for her all night with his night-vision goggles, probably supposing that it would be Peeta who he’d find allied with Kat so that he could play villain to that tale. Or at very least, he’d find Thresh. Unlike Cato and Clove from Two, he didn’t have a script to follow and that gave him an advantage, freedom to adapt and move; he had the training for Cashmere to trust that he’d know how to improvise around the other tributes’ stories. 

Of course, it was Rue whom he found instead and that was fine with Marvel, too. She never stood a chance. Barely reaching to that tall boy’s sternum, surely less than half his weight, she was twelve and she was starved and not a volunteer. Just a second ago, she’d teased another song out of her Mockingjays, telling Katniss in that hopeful way she was alright. Now she was screaming. It might have been to warn off Katniss. Probably it was just mindless panic because she was _twelve_ and she was _dead._ White showing in her eyes, she struggled, caught in the net Marvel had used to trap her in a move that One must have added to the training plan after Finnick won that way nine years ago; he’d never seen a One do that before. An older tribute with training would have cut herself out of that net. 

Katniss never hesitated, never even a second. Her bow was strung. It was a beautiful, flawless, deadly shot, an almost lavish display of skill. 

The sound of Marvel’s cannon followed instantly, but that didn’t save Rue.

Two seats over, Seeder was whispering a prayer to the god whose worship the Capitol forbade, in the otherwise silent Central. A swearword could be heard on the far end of the room coming from One, out of this Games as of now. Chaff watched the events that unfolded on the screens, stone-faced, reaching out without a word to grab Seeder’s shoulder, squeezing hard. Katniss was crying, singing to Rue, her voice trembling and yet strong and unexpectedly clear. This district child’s death broadcast all across Panem so that people in the Capitol could feel moved by the murder that they’d helped commit, and the districts could feel sick. 

Finnick’s eyes flickered to the main channel screen, and he suddenly felt nauseous. 

That channel never cut away from Katniss during her song. Not once. It had disposed of Marvel, declared his death an irrelevant distraction, refusing to let it impact on the shoot, although he’d been a runner-up. This, very suddenly, was Katniss’ scene. 

Mechanically, Finnick pictured how this imagery was just spreading through the Capitol right now, like a virus infection. In clubs and bars and private homes, everybody was staring at this. They – Haymitch – had built this story of Katniss so carefully, every detail tweaked and calculated, every nuance spun. That had been then. This was something new.

He could almost physically feel that story slipping out of their hands, out of their control, because _the production wasn’t cutting away_ and Kat still sang and that meant _everybody fell in love_ the exact way everybody had last fallen in love with _Finnick._

This wasn’t about sex, though. Finnick didn’t think that people wanted to fuck Katniss right now, and that only made it _worse._ It made it dangerous, because what else was there to want on this scale?

It seemed to be very quiet in the room, quieter than should be possible with eight mentors still present and the main channel commentary running, except Caesar Flickerman seemed to have shut up because he was letting the song do its magic as well, in that reverent way. 

Katniss was arranging flowers around Rue, folding her hands in front of her chest and closing her eyes, and that just wasn’t _done_. 

Forcing his eyes away from the screen despite that terrible cold feeling, Finnick looked at Chaff, Haymitch breathing very calmly between them while he took it all in, Chaff, whose face was icy and full of distaste. This was worse than the Capitol’s love for Finnick, yes. Rue had refused to play the Games alright, but she was twelve. The twelve-year-olds did that sometimes, and even if it slipped into the broadcast, everybody dismissed them as irrelevant. Now Katniss refused to act like the girl stopped mattering once she was dead, and she’d involved Chaff’s district in that and the camera still wasn’t pulling away, picking over a child’s death for their entertainment. 

Until it did end, abruptly. Flickerman’s voice filled the air again after just a beat of pause, creating tension about Thresh stalking the wheat field for the Ten male, as if that were the most interesting thing that had happened all day. 

“What an _exciting_ day at the Games,” he gushed, too experienced and too good at what he did to betray that he, like Finnick, knew perfectly well that somebody had just crashed that cutting room. Somebody had just made a choice and somebody somewhere would be _executed_ for not cutting away from Rue ealier than this. 

People in the Capitol, Gamesmakers and Games executives were very, very safe until sometimes, very suddenly, President Snow reached for the phone, and they weren’t. 

The districts, viewing mandatorily, had already seen it all, and they’d have had a very different spin; that was a different story that they’d seen. They weren’t supposed to be allowed to see that story.

The main channel was all on Thresh, cameras buried in the ground filming him from below and making him loom above everybody. But nobody’s mind was on Thresh. 

Katniss was crying soundlessly on the screen above Haymitch while the Hovercraft took Rue away, but nobody saw. 

Dazed and numb, Finnick glanced at his and Haymitch’s console and how it kept lighting up to inform them that sponsors were upping their budgets without bothering to call about it first anymore. Haymitch couldn’t know this, because this was a thing that never happened in Twelve, only sometimes in Four, but the fact that nobody was calling had to mean that so many people were doing it at once – new sponsors, journalists, more journalists – that they’d automatically been rerouted to Effie’s office, who’d weed out out what they didn’t really need to hear. 

He couldn’t decide if this couldn’t get better, or if it couldn’t get worse. 

How could they not win this Games now?

Seeder’s phone rang but Seeder had gotten up and quietly left the room somewhere along the way, so Chaff took it instead, saying, “Suppose you wanted me anyway, huh?” into his headset. 

Then he turned his head away from them and talked with the other person, not getting louder but certainly getting more agitated. Taking more sips from his drink. It was a long call.

Haymitch was very quiet, as he’d been quiet for a long while, switching back and forth from life stats to sponsorship budgets and media reports on his console, looking at each in turn as if trying to spot a new angle. 

Thresh butchered the Ten male, viciously, with his bare hands. Chaff barely looked up from his phone call, having known his tribute was almost in no danger during that one, and it seemed a stale and pale and uneventful part of the adrenaline low after the events before.

Katniss was building camp up on her screen with mechanical, robotic motions, as if she wasn’t home in her own head, never knowing of or caring about that precious hour of privacy she had gained. On the screen next to hers, Peeta was curled up under a ledge asleep, fidgeting and licking his lips where Eleanor’s blood had splashed only hours before. 

Haymitch’s fingers were tapping a song onto his armrest, still immersed in the displays. His face was blank. His mind was too busy to remember facial expressions. 

Chaff’s call seemed to have ended because he ripped the headset off and abruptly stood up, startling Haymitch and Finnick alongside him into glancing up. Chaff was looking down at them with very dark, very hollow, very angry eyes, as if he were a little dead inside in a way that he didn’t normally allow on the surface. His hand gripped the back of his chair so hard that his knuckles had changed color. Finnick had never seen him like that and despite everything, his mind stuttered for the fraction of a second when his hand itched, wanting to reach for the trident that he didn’t carry. 

Chaff was focused on Haymitch. 

“Congratulations, buddy,” he said, almost spitting it out. “You did it. You actually broke their brains. You wanted to show everybody out there that your district ain’t the worst at killing kids, after all? You did. You made even my fucking so-called people fall in love with your girl. I just had my mayor on the phone. 

“Looks like, my district has made a fucking democratic choice, or something, to take the money that they all starved themselves for so that the girl could have some bread before she dies, and to give it away to District fucking Twelve out of neighborly love.”

He glanced at their screens, gaze dripping with contempt – at the child deemed more worthy of survival than his, at his district, at _people_ and how you tried and tried and you used yourself up and in the end, it wasn’t just that you never succeeded. It also turned out nobody cared if you did. It was a strange, sharp insight into a district so unlike Four and even unlike Twelve. 

Chaff took a breath. 

“She doesn’t even need that bread,” he said. “Thresh needs that bread. That was my first tribute with a real chance in over twenty years. I could have brought that kid home. Now turns out that my district doesn’t even give a shit. Guess they like their little sacrificial lambs innocent. Better a dead kid than a murderer who got his hands bloody to survive.

“I transferred the money to you, and the Eleven bread recipe, so have at it.” He wet this lips. “She doesn’t even need that bread,” he muttered again, to himself, almost deranged, before he turned around and left the room as if it didn’t matter, as if he couldn’t bear to see, as if Thresh were already lost. He might as well have been; his district had just declared him irrelevant the same way the broadcast had done to Marvel when he died.

Because they liked another district’s tribute best. 

“What the…” Finnick breathed, staring after him, uncomprehending. 

He wanted to reach out and take Haymitch’s hand just because he suddenly needed to touch him, he suddenly just really needed that feeling of Haymitch’s hand in his, a person who was real and mattered to him. It was as if the ground were swaying underneath them, heralding a surge. 

Finnick suddenly had to think of Annie Cresta’s arena again, a desert one minute, an ocean the next, those water masses crashing down, the last survivor the girl that had trod water the longest. Nothing had been possible anymore in that arena except desperately staying alive. 

“Haymitch…” he said, although he didn’t know what should follow, just needing Haymitch to… to do something, say something, _“I’ve got this,”_ maybe. _“I’m still the ones who’s spinning this. I’ve got a plan.”_

Haymitch was still staring at the screens, breathing in, breathing out in that very controlled way. 

They had to have been screaming at the screens in One, angry at that girl, their privilege stolen away, the privilege that made their children so much safer. Panem’s most successful district, last year’s winning district, forgotten and dismissed. Katniss was doing incredible things to the masses; she’d slipped out of their control.

Haymitch abruptly breathed out. 

“Wait until she’s done building camp, get that bread to her then,” he said, getting up. “Wait if anybody’ll realize it’s from Eleven and if so, call Effie to get poll results on that if you can.”

“Where are you going?” 

Haymitch grimaced, hesitating for a beat. 

“Just something I’d like to check out,” he said. “You might have to watch them all night.”

Patting Finnick’s shoulder in a way that didn’t feel half as reassuring as it should have, he was gone, leaving Finnick staring at the screens of those to promising children, either one of which might get to go home. 

It was Day Eight of the Games, both their tributes still in and the field down to five. They’d have started interviewing Gale and Primrose back home, Hue and Dane Mellark. 

Annie Cresta had won her Games because she’d trod water long enough. She’d kept breathing on. But even the best swimmer would die if there was a storm raging on and no shoreline in sight. Finnick couldn’t help but think that a Games would end without any survivors, if it happened that way.


	24. Chapter 23: Changing The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Haymitch was proposing that one act of catharsis that all the victors had to be dreaming of, this powerful, desperate sense that you’d done right, that there wasn’t any reason to feel guilty, for once._

### Chapter 23: Changing The Rules

After a night of searching all of the Training Center for Haymitch, growing more frantic by the hour, it was Caramel who tipped Finnick off. 

“I’m not going to act like I want anything to do with this, Odair,” he said, starkly reminding Finnick that he had people to protect, too, people whom he loved and who might die because of him; that was why Snow had been able to sell him for so many years and why he’d gone along with it so docilely. It was in the hallway of the Four quarters, after Finnick had been everywhere. Caramel seemed very stiff, visibly resenting the contact when he leaned in, speaking lowly and closely enough into Finnick’s ear for the bugs to not catch it. Even that was dangerous; a camera might catch that they were doing it. 

His breath made the hair stand up on the back of Finnick’s neck. 

“There’s a crossway in the Avox quarters, connects the Gamesmakers lounge with the kitchen and the district floors. And for all fucking districts’ sake, just don’t ask me how I know that. Ask Beetee to get you in the service elevator, he’ll override the codes. Act like you don’t see the Avoxes, and they’ll make like they’ve never seen you. Haymitch’s been trying to get one of the Gamesmakers’ assistants to talk to him all night, or someone even higher up. They are going to meet there soon.”

“Who else has he been talking to?” Finnick murmured back, making himself not flinch away, never having wanted to know what Caramel smelled like, what his skin felt like almost touching his. 

The side that he could see of Caramel’s freshly shaven face shaped itself into a grimace. 

“Safer for your family if you don’t know.”

Finnick felt so tense that he could constantly taste metallic adrenaline in his mouth, anxiety forming that painful tight knot in his stomach that shifted every time he moved. 

It was four in the morning; tracing Haymitch’s steps, he hadn’t slept all night.

* * *

Beetee, on the other hand, had clearly been sleeping soundly, disengaged, now that his tribute was out of the Games. 

Eyes bleary and his glasses ever-so askew, he’d stood in his doorway huddled in a silk bathrobe and listened, his face turning more serious and more awake and more _there_ than Finnick had ever seen, with every sentence. After five or six of them, he had nodded, telling somebody in the Three quarters – maybe Wiress – that all was well, she should go back to bed. The fact that there wasn’t an awful lot of explaining or convincing to do told Finnick that here was another person in on the crazy scheme that seemed to have so suddenly popped into Haymitch’s mind. Apparently, Haymitch had enlisted everybody’s help but Finnick’s.

Beetee gestured at Finnick to follow him down the corridor, heedless of his bathrobe as if he owned the place – or had concluded that proper dress just didn’t matter to the image that the Capitol wanted him to project – until they reached the service elevator on his floor, in a corner of the Avox corridors where nobody would ever bother to look for anybody. None of the slaves could be seen.

While Beetee got to work with a little computer device that he held at the access panel, Finnick watched him nervously, wondering what the fuck he was even doing here. What Haymitch was doing – what they all were doing. They were already breaking rules that Finnick found unthinkable to break. 

_“It’s just a matter of time until I do something unbelievably idiotic again.”_ Those words suddenly popped into his mind. Haymitch had said that to him ages ago, the day after they’d first kissed when he’d tried to make Finnick stay away. _“And then I’ll be gone, and hopefully it’ll just be me and a couple more tributes who’ll be fucked.”_

“Are you sure that nobody’s recording…” he started saying, the thought making him feel even more on edge, but Beetee waved it off without looking up. 

“They might have decided that I need to be an engineer,” he muttered almost dryly, “but I don’t believe that means I cannot have a hobby.” A fleeting smile appeared on his face. “And I’ve always been fascinated with surveillance devices. So shockingly relevant to all our lives.”

At those words, the elevator door slid open, revealing an empty, sturdy alcove made of steel, all functionality – as if you left the Capitol once you stepped in. 

Before Finnick could breathe a “Thank you,” the older man touched his shoulder to stop him from leaving immediately.

The grave look he gave Finnick had no resemblance to the iconic absentminded scientist that the Capitol’s celebrity news reporter liked to gently mock, but otherwise was ignored. This, Finnick realized with startled recognition, was the man who’d befriended Haymitch, because simple people bored him too much. This was the man who had won his Games by making even water and lightning into a weapon, possibly the most dangerous of victors in that way. 

“You’re aware why Haymitch is trying to reach Senecra Crane’s ear, are you not?” he asked. Caramel and Beetee might have been helping Haymitch on his quest because Haymitch was their friend and he had asked, but they still very much knew what was at stake, and they didn’t want him to die, like Finnick.

“He told you?” Finnick asked, startled, but Beetee shook his head. 

“Not in so many words, no, but in hindsight, it seems apparent…” He paused for a moment, collecting his words. “Conny has… sources, from his Capitol days. He has access to popularity polls, the real results, not the versions that are aired and used to influence the audience. Haymitch had been looking at those for the better part of the night. Those two tributes of yours… They have created extraordinary reactions. I am almost entirely certain that he is advocating for a rule change. But such a thing would have to be instigated by a Gamesmaker, of course, if not the Head Gamesmaker himself.” 

Finnick just stared at the other man, unable to catch on when those words just refused to make any sense. “What do you mean, a rule change? What kind of rule change?” There couldn’t be a rule change. Panem didn’t change. Snow had everything under perfect control. Nothing in the districts and the Capitol and the victors’ lives would ever change, and changing the rules of the Capitol was just as ludicrous as breaking them. Twelve-year-old Rue might have been allowed to. But that had been because she’d been twelve, and because she’d been as good as dead already. 

The look Beetee gave him now from above the rim of his glasses was almost pitiful. “A rule change in the _Games_ , Finnick. I’d suspect he is trying to allow for two victors, if they are tied together by an alliance, or representing the same district.”

He waved his fingers at the entrance. “Now go before a janitor checks to see why this elevator is blocked. You will be able to access it without any codes on the way back.”

“Thank you,” Finnick said, after a moment, unable to take his eyes off Beetee even once he’d stumbled over the threshold. But then the door was sliding shut and the steel box rumbled into motion, carrying him districts knew where. 

Only then did the full meaning of those words finally dawn on him, and his heart was suddenly racing, nausea was creeping up from deep inside of him and spreading all through his body; everything in him screamed at the elevator to go the fuck faster. _Rule change, rule change, rule change,_ his heart was chanting a mad rhythm against his chest. 

There had been any number of times in these crazy last two years when he would have said he’d never felt this scared before, as if the stakes kept growing; but this time, the fear was acidic and existential, and all he knew was that he had to find Haymitch before it was too late.

* * *

A bell rang when the elevator stuttered to a halt. The doors opened, and Finnick was heading through the bare servant corridors, tunnels more than hallways, buried underneath the shining Capitol facilities, like rotting roots of a sick tree that still seemed fine outside. He kept his head down, desperately not making any eye contact with the Avoxes who passed him, laden with laundry bins and pushing kitchen carts, starting with wide, fearful eyes when they recognized him. Taking furtive looks left and right at all the crossways, he followed Beetee’s and Caramel’s directions, the edges of his vision blurring – all too aware that he was acting like he was in a Games, when he would never again be at liberty to act like in a Games.

The difference between inside and outside the arena was, after all, that inside was the only place where they allowed you to win. 

Haymitch was a startling sight, so familiar in this foreign terrain, leaning against a wall next to what had to be the kitchen entrance. He was still dressed in the same clothes as the day before, glancing at his watch every other second. 

At the sound of Finnick’s steps, he looked up and their eyes met, and so many different emotions crossed Haymitch’s face at once. Surprise, not the pleasant kind. _Fear._

“Fuck Finnick, you shouldn’t be…” 

“What the fuck are you _doing_ down here?” 

They’d reached each other. Haymitch took one look at Finnick’s face and grimaced, took another look at his watch, and then one over his shoulder as he gripped Finnick’s arm. “You need to get out of here, right this second. You can’t be here. If Snow sees…”

“I think Beetee disabled the cameras when he got me to the elevator…”

“And you think that that’s ever _enough_?” Haymitch looked angry now, but he seemed to reach a decision, because there were another couple of searching looks and then he was dragging Finnick along. “Come on, we don’t have much time, we sure can’t talk _here._ ”

And just like that, Finnick’s heart was beating wildly, the whole craziness of the situation unfolding in front of him like a particularly bizarre storm. _Rule change, rule change, rule change,_ that voice in his head was still chanting alongside his heartbeat, and, _fuck_ in a tone that sounded suspiciously like Caramel. His mom, dad, Coral, Perri, Keanu, everybody could be executed just because he was in this hallway. Haymitch could be executed, or worse, just because he was here. Nothing could be worth that, nothing in the world. But Finnick, with a start, realized that Haymitch had become such a natural, important part of his life that he hadn’t even paused before following him, despite of what discovery might mean to the Odairs. 

The thought left him trembling even more; nothing had ever, _ever_ been more important to Finnick than protecting the Odairs. 

A blink of an eye, and Haymitch had opened a door seemingly at random, had taken a look inside and dragged Finnick in, lights turning on automatically as the door fell shut behind them. Oppressive silence settled in abruptly, all the noises shut out. This was a storage room, Finnick realized – bare, dusty metal shelves filled to the top with boxes, some open, some closed, kitchen supplies spilling out. 

Haymitch started pacing the room immediately. He should have been exhausted, but didn’t look the part, wide-awake as if there were so much adrenaline coursing through him that he didn’t know how to even start releasing it. 

“Talk,” he ground out without looking at Finnick. “I’ve got to be back there when Crane arrives, or he’ll think the proposal is off.”

“I…” Finnick’s mouth was dry. _He’s actually meeting with Crane._ “What the fuck, Haymitch. Beetee says you want to change the _Games rules._ ” 

“And you should let me handle it instead of getting involved. It’s way too dangerous for…”

“They’re my tributes, too, I’m your partner, of course I’m fucking involved!”

Haymitch flinched, hard, and Finnick belatedly realized how Haymitch, who felt like he had gotten everybody he loved killed, would have felt that accusation as sharply as a twisted knife in his guts; but he felt so agitated himself, he could have grabbed a trident and drilled it into something, no matter what it was. He was _scared._

“I’d have kept you out of this,” Haymitch reasonably said. “Snow isn’t in the business of punishing people who’ve always followed his rules.”

That was _nowhere_ close to the point, though, as far as Finnick was concerned. “You can’t bring two of them home.” He was almost whispering it. “You’ll never bring two of them home.” 

But Haymitch was shaking his head in denial, too vigorous to be really listening to him. “No. No, that’s where you’re wrong right there.” He took a breath, coming to a halt and facing Finnick, as if he’d reached a decision. Raising his hand. Lowering it when he reconsidered his course of action. 

“Alright,” he said, all business. Finnick was here now, so apparently he would just deal with that. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Okay. We know the Capitol’s wild about Peeta and Kat, right? And not just the Capitol. Everybody is. District Eleven, for fuck’s sake,” he breathed, making Finnick shudder from the sheer sensory memory of that, because… yeah. District Eleven, where they’d sentenced Thresh to death for a display of emotional kitsch. 

“So Conny’s got access to the clean polls, I’ve been looking at those. It’s big. It could get bigger than you and Conny ever got combined. People out there, they don’t care what kid survives in there, not really, but you wouldn’t believe how much they’d give right now just to see those two sharing a screen. They’re _dying_ to see what the girl would do if she could ally with that boy. Nobody cares if it takes changing the rules to get that.” 

But Finnick was staring at Haymitch who’d so very clearly lost his mind. “ _Snow cares_.” It still didn’t sound as incredulous as he felt; there was no way to sound that incredulous.

“Snow does what the Capitol wants, don’t you get it?!” Haymitch snapped, furious, but in a desperate way. Not at Finnick, Finnick knew that, although it felt like it, hypersensitive as the adrenaline made him feel. 

The breath Haymitch heaved made all of his chest rise and fall. “Alright, more. Factor in the Gamesmakers themselves. We all know that ain’t the safest job in the world. They’re antsy. Crane’s been antsy for years. Guy before him, Hogan Leash, he gave us Johanna, he gave us you. Now what? Crane’s tried the crazy arenas, but turns out what the crowds want is _victors_ to love, and the snow globes ain’t producing those.” 

“It’s not our job to help the Gamesmakers out…” Finnick tried to interrupt him, because this really was insane, that insane kind of thinking that had almost had ended up with Haymitch dying from alcohol poisoning one time, because people he loved had been killed and he’d been left miserable and alone. Now, it could kill Haymitch _and_ Finnick. 

But Haymitch was riding right over him, caught up in his own argument.

“So Crane needs a success, right?” he said. “Think about it. Really think. A rule change’d give him everything, it’d make them remember him forever, and it’d give them _two_ of those popular kids. ‘This Games, two victors get to go home if they’re from the same district.’ What happens? Our kids join up, Two’s do as well, so it won’t look like it’s putting anybody at a disadvantage…”

“…except District Eleven!” Finnick interrupted him, exasperated. He _refused_ to listen to this any longer. Haymitch might have as well proposed a _climate change_. “Thresh is still in the Games…” 

Then he abruptly shut his mouth, because Haymitch had given him that side glance, half resolved and half defensive, and Finnick could only stare for a moment. “What did you do?” he managed. 

Oh, this was _so bad._

Haymitch looked away, jaw working. “Chaff…” He cleared his voice. “Chaff might have found a gift in front of his doorway last night? Chances are, he’s not gonna be a problem this Games day,” he muttered. 

“You _drugged_ him?”

The snort Haymitch gave him was bitter. “Don’t gotta drug him. I know well enough how it works. Just a nice bottle of booze and a note saying sorry, that drink’s on me. The way he gets when he’s got a strong tribute, he downs the whole thing, chases it down with some of the stuff he brought from home himself.” 

“All the dirt in all the…” Finnick breathed, barely noticing that he’d adopted one of Haymitch’s idioms, his regular swearwords seeming too weak. 

“It’s what you do to get one home and Chaff knows that,” was all Haymitch said to that, reminding Finnick that yes, while Haymitch was crossing a line about how you treated fellow victors and friends, this was the outlier districts. This was just how desperate you got. There were no luxuries, no privilege of deciding to put personal values over victory just this one year if for once, you had a child in the Games who might survive. Haymitch was breathing consciously and deeply now, the same way Finnick did to manage stress – none of his agitation gone, but tightly under control. 

“This has to be about Twelve against Two,” Haymitch said in a reasonable, cold-hearted voice, the one he’d never have adopted before Finnick had pushed him to embrace the way the Games was played. “Or the Gamesmakers won’t see what the proposal’s all about. Look at Chaff, I say, he’s plastered, Eleven ain’t a real contender. Now I don’t know who’s gonna show up back at the kitchen entrance, if it’s gonna be Crane himself or what – not that I’d mind if this went straight to the top. But, Finnick.” His breath became shaky, and he rubbed his face, looking away. “Fuck, Finnick. I’ve been doing this for twenty-four years here. That’s forty-six dead kids on my watch. I can’t…” His voice broke, so he had to clear it, trying again but sounding clogged. “This is as good as it gets. We could save both this time.”

“They’re not you and Maysilee,” Finnick whispered. 

Haymitch grimaced, though it looked like the expression had only settled on his face for lack of better options, because everything about this was just too painful and too _hysterical_ , in a terrible way where you laughed instead of crying, for anything else. “Trust me when I say I’m aware,” he said, in a final way, bone-dry. 

There was a metal crate stored in a corner of the room. Before he could think, Finnick had slumped down on it, hard, his legs suddenly feeling too weak to carry him; dust would get smeared all over Cherry’s creation of the night, but he just didn’t have room in his head to care. A heavy weight settled in his chest, all the anxiety and fear and exasperation tightening up into something new and exhausting. 

“You don’t change the Capitol’s rules,” he muttered, rubbing his face. All night, he’d looked for Haymitch, who’d been suddenly gone in more than one way. 

Haymitch looked equally exhausted now, like all the pain was way too much to bear. “Yeah, I don’t,” he agreed. “But the Capitol does.”

Finnick swallowed hard. 

Haymitch was right on that front, of course. It was a final argument that should have chased away the other ones, because this was the Capitol, wanting those two children to survive. The Capitol wanted all manner of things and then obtain them, the opposite of life as any victor had ever known. If the Capitol wanted something but there was a rule, it expected that somebody would go and change the fucking rule. That was how the Capitol worked. 

After all, there’d used to be a rule about not fucking fourteen-year-olds, until there hadn’t been.

Finnick shuddered at the thought. 

Clothes rustled. Finnick looked up. Haymitch had crouched down in front of him, the way he had done that day at Swagger’s when Finnick had melted and melted and somehow, when he was done, Haymitch still hadn’t left the room; he’d stayed with Finnick although Finnick was a pervert and a freak. Except Finnick was sitting on a crate instead of the ground now, of course, so Haymitch was beneath him, looking up. Watching him. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked strangely emaciated in a way Finnick hadn’t noticed before, too caught up in his own trauma this Games. It couldn’t be that Haymitch had lost that much weight since they’d come here, never having stopped eating, but he still looked haggard, and like something about him had gotten lost. 

“Forty-six dead kids, Finnick,” Haymitch said, sounding hoarse, looking not quite at the ground now, but at Finnick’s hands, clasped between his knees, as if he longed to take them in his. “And I see her in all of them, yeah.” 

Maysilee. Of course, he was talking about Maysilee, whom he couldn’t have saved, because only the Capitol had any power in a Games. “I see myself in them, too, sometimes. All those kids. They never stay dead.”

Finnick pressed his lips together. “You won’t get any of them back this way,” he repeated. 

Haymitch nodded easily, acquiescing swiftly and stating that way that he knew; it just didn’t matter. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do anything to get two of them home.” 

Being discovered roaming the Avox corridors could get all of the Odairs killed, Finnick thought again, in a detached way. He was sitting on a crate in a room in the Avox basement, and that fact alone could kill his mom and his dad. It could kill Coral or Mags. A year ago, six weeks ago, he wouldn’t even have hesitated before he said thank you, but no. He wasn’t sure he could have followed Haymitch here. Everything had always been about that. Now, he’d done it anyway, he hadn’t even thought about it; he’d just chased down all the information he needed, like raiding the Cornucopia, and then he’d reentered the Games and he’d gone to find and save the man who’d become his other family. 

It didn’t quite leave him feeling as adrift as the other times before when being with Haymitch had changed all these things, but more like there was still a foothold left, like a flag on a pole flapping around in the wind. 

Haymitch’s plan was sound, Finnick thought. It was crazily risky, but in a calculated way – the way only Haymitch got, with his phenomenal ability to go beyond the common ways of solving problems, as if using a force field against another tribute had only been the _beginning_ of playing the system against itself. It was nothing like the way Finnick thought. But – trying to let go of his fears – he could see how it might work. He could see that his own way of playing Snow’s game exactly by Snow’s rules might be the best to stay afloat, but Haymitch’s was the kind that would eventually change the _world._ Change Panem and the Games. Make them want to keep two. Make them believe that they have all power in the world to change the Games. _Make them change the Games._

They sat like that, for a moment, breathing the stale air of the slave storage room where nothing ever changed. After a while, Finnick slid off the crate, sitting on the floor and leaning against it instead. Haymitch had to inch away from him to make space, slumping onto his butt, both their legs propped up, intertwined, their ankles touching in that solid way. 

Finnick reached out for one of Haymitch’s hands, playing with it. 

As he always had ever since he’d dared admit his attraction to Finnick, Haymitch let him. Haymitch always let him do anything he wanted to do, even when Finnick was doing it to _him_ , and Finnick suddenly wondered why that was. 

“I’ve gotta do this,” Haymitch said after a while, his voice tight enough to remind Finnick that they were running out of time; there was a deadline involved. They had to make a choice, get going, if Haymitch still wanted to meet Crane. “Without the change, maybe we get one of them home. Odds are still looking good. Maybe we don’t, because districts know there ain’t such a thing as a safe bet in a Games. But.” There was a pause. “But if there’s a chance to make it as close to a safe victory as can be, you gotta take it, or you can’t live with yourself. You can’t.”

In those long nine years since his victory, Finnick had done everything Snow had told him to do, everything and then some. Because he’d had a family to protect. Because it was the only thing he could do. Still it had left him feeling shady and dirty all the time, just, that act of collaboration, of helping make that system work. Haymitch was proposing that one act of catharsis that all the victors had to be dreaming of, this powerful, desperate sense that you’d done right, that there wasn’t any reason to feel guilty, for once. 

He thought of Haymitch leaving a bottle of booze in front of Chaff’s door, of how he himself had threatened the same man a year back that he’d do terrible things to him, expose him as an addict and exploit him as a cripple, because he’d so much needed Haymitch to be safe. He thought of Games school in Twelve. He thought of promises he’d made to Gale Hawthorne, of how he’d try everything to get Katniss home. He thought of Annie Cresta’s Games and of swimming and of how the one choice you had left if you battled it out with the ocean was returning back to the shore. 

Finnick pressed his lips together. 

“I want for us to be safe,” he said. 

Haymitch took a sharp breath. 

“Finnick…” he said, sounding pained, having to be so very aware of how impossible that would always be, but Finnick was shaking his head. 

“No,” he said, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “No.” He took a breath. “There will be other Games. There will be so many Games. If this one doesn’t work out, we can try again next year. This is… it’s huge, already, we’ve already improved the odds for Twelve with this – things are going to get better. But, but I can’t lose you. I can’t. I can’t even think… all the things Snow could do… I can’t even _breathe_ when I think…” His voice broke. But he didn’t have to tell Haymitch, of course, all the horrible things that could be done to them if Haymitch, or the both of them, went through with this. Done to Haymitch, done to Twelve. Snow could decide that it had become too much – that Finnick had become unsafe, that Haymitch had become too big a risk to keep alive. He could make them pay, in so many ways. 

And there were a lot of those punishments that Finnick could take. The humiliation. The shame. The constant, terrible, unbearable abuse. But what he couldn’t bear was losing Haymitch, losing the life that they had together – Haymitch dead, Finnick sent back to his old home in Four, any of that. 

The rule change was a Capitol supporter’s - _Snow’s_ \- biggest nightmare come true, and that made it _Finnick’s_ worst nightmare come true, because he and Haymitch would be the ones paying the price of Snow’s fury. You didn’t change the Games rules, you didn’t get to bring two of them home instead of one because the fact that you couldn’t was the _point_ of the Games. Changing the rules shook the foundation of everything the Games were supposed to be. There was _no telling_ what would happen if Haymitch made Snow change the rules. That wasn’t a risk that Finnick could _bear._

He’d lost so many things already, and he’d built so few in their place; he couldn’t lose any of them, not even a small thing, and this one was huge. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him, ever since he’d won his Games. 

The grip of Haymitch’s fingers around his tightened. 

“Sometimes, you’ve gotta sacrifice things,” he reminded Finnick, just sounding _sad_ as if he’d followed Finnick’s thoughts – as if he were mourning already all the things they might lose if they tried to save Peeta and Katniss. As if that was just the way it had to work.

But Finnick was shaking his head. “No,” he said, feeling choked. “You don’t. You can decide that you can’t.” 

He was in motion, then, turning and twisting until he fit between Haymitch’s legs, half turned towards him, his shoulder against the other man’s chest, breathing in the warm scent of soap and District Twelve and Haymitch; and Haymitch wrapped his arms around him with a shushing noise, very strong and very safe. That was another thing: He’d always been this protective presence, comforting Finnick whenever Finnick asked – reliably giving. “Finnick,” he again muttered, gearing up for yet another argument, but Finnick shook his head in the crook of Haymitch’s neck and said, “No,” again. 

“We deserve to get things,” he said. “You deserve getting the things you want. You don’t have to risk us. You don’t have to. You don’t owe anybody…” He was feeling close to tears, like his whole body was shaking; the sheer act of having to argue this point felt like it was cracking him open. “You don’t owe anybody anything. Please,” he managed. “Please, I can’t lose you. I could lose you from this. It isn’t worth that. Snow can’t… he can’t…” Snow had forced this life on them, he’d forced them to make their whole lives revolve around the Games until they died. But for the first time, Finnick desperately told himself that Snow couldn’t force them to _play._ “We get to make that choice. 

“I know I wanted the Games school,” he heard himself say. “That was all me, not you. I wanted more success in the Games. I wanted to be good at that. But I… I don’t want to do it at this cost. _Those_ are the rules I want to change. I want to make it about us, I don’t want to win the Games more than I want you. I love you, I can’t lose you, I want to keep you in my life…”

“Shit, Finnick,” Haymitch was saying, helplessly, his hand on Finnick’s back, the other one in Finnick’s hair, holding all of him, and now his voice was trembling too. “Shit, it’s all good, alright, it’s… fuck, I love you, too, alright? I… Don’t fall apart on me. Not now. I’m not… if that’s what you want, I’m not gonna…”

“I don’t know how to live without you anymore, I want to get things, I won’t make it all about the Games when I _have_ things to lose…”

“Yeah, alright, shit, alright…”

“You get to get things,” Finnick whispered, raising his head and bumping his forehead against Haymitch’s, feeling Haymitch’s breath against his mouth, needing to be close. He closed his eyes; there were tears on his cheeks now, and he couldn’t have edged away from Haymitch even if he’d tried; but as long as they were like this, he felt like he could still breathe. “You get to want things. You don’t owe this to anybody.” 

A shudder ran through all of Haymitch at those words, so intense that Finnick could feel it underneath his palms and against his chest. It was as if it was all he’d ever needed to hear to be able to keep going, condensed down to two sentences.

There was a line, was the thing. They got to make up a line; it had to be allowed. They could say that they wanted to help those kids. They wanted to even out the odds, make things better for Twelve, make the district less desperate and less starved. Gain power in the Capitol in their own, small, fucked-up way. But they also got to decide when it was enough. Haymitch didn’t have to think that he didn’t deserve any happiness, that he had to give Peeta and Katniss the biggest possible chance because he owed those children, when everything about this Games had reminded him of his Quell. Happiness didn’t have to be a fleeting thing that he didn’t deserve to keep. His life had changed. It had gotten better. He was allowed to ask that it stay better. 

But Haymitch hadn’t been told _I want you_ or _You’re worth it_ or _I love you_ in over twenty years; he’d only ever been told that he wasn’t doing well enough and that he had to improve. He would never ask that his relationship, his personal life be more important than Katniss and Peeta, or any of his tributes. Two years ago, Haymitch hadn’t even been able to accept _I like you_ as a reason for people doing anything for him, the memory of what that meant too distant, the fear of hurting them too great. But Finnick would ask for these things for him. Finnick _needed to_ because Finnick needed _Haymitch_ , and Haymitch needed that feeling that there was somebody who needed him. So, Finnick shakily thought, it all worked out for them. 

He thought of Catriona Wink, the Eleven escort, and how all he had wanted to do when he learned about what Haymitch had done with her was to defend Haymitch, and how he hadn’t understood why he could make excuses for Haymitch in that situation, but not for other people. It was so simple, though. Haymitch meant the most to him. Finnick wanted to make that selfish choice, put Haymitch and himself and their relationship above the Games and everybody. And that was _okay_ Haymitch had thrown himself back into the Games because Finnick had asked. Finnick could ask him now to stop. 

Finnick had come to District Twelve to play a Games – against Snow, against the Capitol and the media, against District Twelve and himself. It felt as if he had been playing the Games ever since he had kneeled there at the edge of that jungle in his arena, sweat gleaming on his forehead, trident clutched in his head, that last dead child’s blood all over him. He’d told himself he was telling the Capitol a story, a story that hadn’t fully played out, and that he couldn’t afford to get swayed or doubt himself or consider new angles if he wanted to win. He’d played to win, but by Snow’s rules, volunteering to sacrifice more and more of himself. 

He’d never before considered doing the opposite – consider the big picture, lean back, keep safe what he had. He’d never had anything to keep. Now all he wanted was to stop and start a new life, and give Haymitch all the things he needed, because Haymitch couldn’t reach for them himself. 

No previous choice had ever left him feeling at peace like that about who he was and what he did and what he wanted. 

Words had power, and many of the ones spoken in this room had been very powerful indeed; but Finnick had still somehow run out of them now. So neither of them said anything anymore, and neither one moved for a long time, and Haymitch never got up to talk to Seneca Crane.

* * *

After all that, they’d somehow both known that Twelve wouldn’t bring this one home despite how good it all still looked for Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. 

Sponsorship had saved Finnick’s life, once upon a time. It had saved Caramel’s, who’d received so much help that he’d been able to betray the Career pack and go up against it alone in a terrible display of ruthlessness and guts. Fact was, however, that it hadn’t been money alone that had earned either of them the crown – everything that Finnick had done with his gold alloy trident, he could have done with a Cornucopia spear. It had been killing skill, and all Careers had that. It had been sheer dumb luck, turning at the right times, ducking at others, tributes who stumbled, who were blinded by light. Finnick couldn’t have figured out Haymitch’s arena, Haymitch couldn’t have figured out Caramel’s, Caramel couldn’t have figured out Finnick’s.

It became a rare Final Three with a tribute in the Games who’d never earned lush sponsorship budgets even now that there were so many sponsors left and so few children to spend money on anymore. That Chaff had lost eight hours to a drunken stupor before rejoining Seeder with a rather surprising amount of functionality had changed very little about that. Nobody cared about Thresh either way.

Katniss was beautiful and deadly, hunted by Cato and Clove who were still grimly determined to hold off killing each other to the end, but they fell for a false trail set by Katniss. She shot Cato square in the neck, then let him bleed out, and she escaped from Clove’s knives when she fled through the forest, the white of hysteria visible in the Two’s eyes as the Games and her partner’s death finally broke her mind down. A day later, however, Clove stumbled into Peeta’s territory, who led her on a merry chase with his camouflage skills. He’d stolen everybody’s heart at that point, but that didn’t save him from Clove’s well-cultivated hair-trigger in the end, reacting to the slightest sound, twisting around and burying her knife in Peeta’s guts before she could even have been sure it was a human being whom she’d sensed. He suffered, but for less than a minute. 

In the end, with the nature of a Games making Katniss and Peeta’s reunion impossible, everybody had held their breath to see who of the lovebirds would kill who; when Peeta was killed by somebody other than Katniss, Clove taking that option away, the tide turned further towards Katniss, who received an even better bow, and against Two. 

Katniss and Clove faced off both clad in sponsor gifts of armors, armed to their teeth, on the barren ruins of what had been a pack camp before Three’s explosives had ripped it apart. 

The explosion had left Katniss deaf on one ear. She noticed Thresh only when his shadow fell across Clove’s face, lying in front of her, innocent and peaceful and still so spent in death. Thresh grabbed Katniss’ head, and pulled, and she dropped like a half-empty flour bag discarded in the market corner, and the cannon fired – two dead wasted girls on a heap, none of which had deserved to live above the other. 

Thresh just stood there. He swayed a little bit, that big boy with the stormy face, with the brown eyes that, in his interview, had startled everybody when they had suddenly turned unsure and gentle for a beat, as Flickerman had asked about what he liked most about working in the fields, remembering maybe a sun dawn, maybe a friend. Now, he just stared, expressionless, at the dead girls at his feet. The purple sun was setting in his back. None of the commentators on the main channel spoke, and another two seconds passed, and then Templesmith made the announcement and the majestic theme started to blare. 

The victor of the 74th Hunger Games looked up at the sound of the Hovercraft, following it with his eyes. 

Somebody, somewhere, very close to Finnick – possibly Seeder – was breathing heavily, hyperventilating. Somebody – Chaff – was muttering things to her in a soothing, choked voice. Finnick and Haymitch just stayed where they’d sat in their seats, looking at their mentoring feed, suddenly empty, that chance suddenly gone – that girl suddenly dead. Just because they’d kind of seen it coming didn’t make it easier to understand.

Finnick only noticed that he’d reached out when Haymitch’s hand bumped against his and wrapped around it, or maybe it had been the other way around. Haymitch still felt strong and warm and scarred and familiar. Like he was his. Finnick squeezed it. Haymitch tightened his grip. 

Another Hunger Games had passed. After twenty-nine years, District Eleven had won, with a boy who would go home to learn his district had decided that they’d have rather crowned the girl whose neck he’d snapped. 

As Hunger Games irony went, that was a fairly typical twist, Finnick supposed. He’d seen his fair share of those in his life. 

He was tired now, though. He just wanted to go home to Twelve.


	25. Chapter 24: Odds and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A new, eerie stillness covered District Twelve when they arrived home._

### Chapter 24: Odds And Ends

In the days between the Games and the crowning ceremony, the _Trophy_ led with a feature on District Twelve: _Haymitch Abernathy and Finnick Odair - The True Victors Of This Hunger Games._ Every other Games-related paper followed suit. The 74th Games had been exciting, but the victory of Thresh had ultimately let Panem down. People were looking for alternative news material with more entertainment value than the boy who’d sat it out. 

Everybody with Games credence knew that Thresh would be forgotten in two years; he’d suffered through his victory interview with an unreadable face, answering Flickerman’s and the other journalist’s questions in monosyllables. So Katniss and Peeta were all over the victory tape, brilliant and colorful and so alive that it hurt. This Games’ story was a tragedy, and Thresh starred only as the witnessing survivor; he’d be remembered as the one who had been there to see. If the boy was smart, he’d eventually figure out how lucky he had gotten.

Finnick could have told them all that the media were wrong when they praised Twelve’s rise to power. There could have been a change, but there hadn’t been. The Games would continue, the same they’d always been. Nothing was different. 

Not as far as the public eye was concerned, anyway. 

Finnick and Haymitch sat at a corner table in the Training Center bar the evening before they’d all go home, not talking, just tired, moodily holding onto their glasses of iced tea, both longing to get drunk in that moment, albeit for different reasons. The victors tended to gather here at this point, even if they didn’t feel like talking to anybody, just in case someone had a last message to relay before everybody went home for a year. A small part of Finnick was missing the days of getting hopelessly wasted with Johanna, but he didn’t want to smell of alcohol in Haymitch’s presence, especially not on the last day of the Games season. 

A heavy thud made them look up. 

Chaff had slumped onto the chair across from Haymitch. He’d brought with him an elaborately arranged green and red cocktail, little sugar umbrellas sticking out of it, which he now put on the table and pushed towards Haymitch in a deliberate way that made a point out of the gesture. 

Finnick tensed. 

Haymitch eyed the drink with a dubious, guarded look on his face, obviously searching for words that might start with something like, _“I really don’t think…”_ Finnick immediately developed a bad feeling that there was almost nothing Haymitch could say that wouldn’t damage his friendship with Chaff even further. 

Chaff watched him with a hard face, in the way one might watch an ugly insect die. 

Then he said edgily, “It’s made of kiwi and cherry or something like that. No alcohol involved, all right?” And after an uneasy beat, he added defensively, before Haymitch had time to react, “Gotta find _something_ if we’re ever gonna go for drinks again, right?”

An unfamiliar, hesitant look crossed Haymitch’s face. It took even Finnick a moment to realize that this was what Haymitch looked like when he was touched. 

Then, Haymitch awkwardly hooked his finger around the stem of the glass and pulled it closer, as if it were something delicate that needed to be protected. 

“Uh,” he said, uncomfortably clearing his voice. “Listen, it’s not like I don’t appreciate the sentiment or anything, but that bottle I had sent to you…”

“…was a filthy scheme to keep me out of the Games, yeah, I get it,” Chaff said with a huff. “Guess what, we still made it. So I guess that leaves me on the moral high ground for a change.” He eyed the glass as if he hated the fact that he had to have this conversation, nodding at it as if it had personally insulted him. “Now drink it and shut the fuck up.”

Haymitch huffed a laugh. 

But he tipped up the glass and downed its contents like it was a shot glass, except that he was coughing a moment later, managing, “What the fuck?” and, “You get this at a candy store?” and Chaff looked like he hadn’t previously considered that this would get hilarious so quickly, but that he might laugh at Haymitch anyway. 

“How the fuck would I know one pansy water-drinker cocktail from another?”

“I’ll leave the two of you to it,” Finnick announced and stood up. 

Then he paused, because he’d brushed his hand across Haymitch’s shoulder without thinking; maybe he’d gotten a little careless about public displays of affection here amongst the victors crowd. However, nobody seemed to have taken any special note of it, and Haymitch had turned to look at him, not starting, just with that automatic beat of, _don’t go_ on his face. It vanished when his mind caught up, however, and although he still looked drained, this off-guard expression crossed his face – momentarily relaxed, as if that one burden were suddenly gone; he and Chaff had been friends for over twenty years. 

Haymitch nodded at Finnick slightly. Only then did Finnick let go of his shoulder, turning to face all the other victors in the room. 

He decided to go check on Johanna.

“So, you and Odair,” he heard Chaff’s voice before it was drowned out by the chatter in the bar. “How the fuck did that even happen? Not that I didn’t appreciate the fucked expression on Conny’s face…” 

Finnick knew there was a chance that Chaff’s forgiveness never would extend to him. Haymitch was his oldest friend, but Finnick had threatened him a year ago; he’d cheated him in a worse way than Haymitch had, and he might have been permanently cast in the role of the bad guy for Chaff. 

There were worse things, though. This wasn’t about Finnick. 

Finnick did appreciate Thresh’s victory, in a way that most of the rest of Panem never would be able to. Katniss and Peeta might have died. But District Eleven had deserved just as much new hope as District Twelve. And in a strange way, he felt like he had gained some new hope as well this Games – not for their odds to bring home a child, but for himself, as if both he and Haymitch suddenly knew so much better who they were and who they wanted to be.

* * *

A new, eerie stillness covered District Twelve when Finnick and Haymitch arrived home. 

Their train had arrived around noon, just past shift-change at the mines: The workers were making their way from the facilities towards their homes in the Seam, passing through the downtown. When Haymitch and Finnick went to give the Mellarks their condolences, the merchie market was littered with half-washed, tired faces of men and women dressed in workers’ rags – the adult variation of oppression in Panem. Nobody approached them, which was normal. But there were eyes following them, a new expression in those faces. At first, it made Finnick’s skin crawl. Then, he realized that the reason it felt different was the way it lacked open hostility. It might even have looked a bit less distrustful. An air of tentative expectancy was hovering in the district. Hope. 

_They’ve seen Katniss and Peeta shine, too,_ Finnick understood. _They’ve felt that marketing pull as well. We could as well have won this one, and if we almost did it once, that means we might do it for real some-day soon._

Katniss Everdeen had been unique; there was nobody like her left who could get reaped, now that Gale was too old. But if that hope meant that children would join Games school, that tributes would enter the Games with the slightest sense that they might get out alive, something almost as important as victory had been achieved. 

The Mellarks’ eldest, Hue and Dane, were holding down the fort at the bakery when Finnick and Haymitch entered, both brothers having donned carefully blank faces, despite the dark circles under their eyes. It was as if they were determined to present a wall between the district and their little dysfunctional private world. From all that outsiders could glimpse, from hints Peeta had dropped, it was a shitty family, but it was probably all they had. A victory at the Hunger Games would probably have been Peeta’s only way to ever escape that world. 

The young men called their parents into the shop. The four of them stiffly lined up behind the counter. Mr. Mellark looked so discolored that he might have been sick right there. Mrs. Mellark kept up the mask of gratitude and politeness that befitted her two richest customers in town, but it was so brittle that Finnick thought it might crumble the moment they turned their backs. Then it did: The door fell shut and the bell rang when they stepped back onto the street, and they’d made it only a few steps before Finnick could distantly hear her screaming at somebody about a ruined cake, in a muted, angry, desperate way that dissolved into sobs. 

Next to him, Haymitch flinched a little bit when it first started, but he didn’t say anything, his eyes on the road, so they just left that place behind. 

Finnick wondered if he’d want to keep buying cakes in screaming colors to make Haymitch laugh now that the boy who’d excelled at them was dead. 

They knocked at the Everdeens’ house down in the Seam, but nobody opened, the house carrying an unwelcoming air of emptiness. Finnick hoped that Katniss’ mother was at a relative’s or friend’s who could take care of her at a time like this. However, when they walked up the only street of Victors’s Village fifteen minutes later, at least they found out where little Primrose had gone. 

Gale Hawthorne stepped forward from where he’d been waiting for them on Finnick’s porch. The girl trailed in his wake. 

She looked white as a sheet and as if she just hadn’t stopped trembling ever since her name had been called and her big sister had volunteered to sacrifice herself so she would live. 

Gale put a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

There was a streak on his face that Finnick had never before seen on him – an ancient-looking, dangerous, hardened edge, even angrier than he’d previously been. This one was the kind that wouldn’t ever go away; it was a permanent scar. 

The last time Finnick and Gale had spoken to each other, Gale had demanded that Finnick bring home his best friend, that he do whatever was necessary. He’d told Finnick he needed him to not fuck his way through the Capitol this time, but of course, Finnick had. 

Finnick took a deep breath, knowing that Gale’s fury would always feel deeply deserved. 

But then, it looked like Gale had followed this Games from a new point of view. He’d always been a realist, unusually quick on the uptake. 

His hand on Prim’s shoulder visibly tightened. 

“Prim will be joining Games classes again,” he said. “Her family is okay with it now.” His voice shook on that last bit, betraying that it had been an incredibly hard thing to say, acknowledging Katniss’ absence in that unspoken way. He looked away, then refocused on Finnick. His face was drawn. “She’ll need to do it on her own from now on. I’ll teach her how to hunt and gather food. You teach her how to survive.”

Primrose tightened her arms around her chest, her lips very firmly pressed together. She neither looked at Finnick and Haymitch, nor at Gale. But she also wasn’t pulling away from him or running away.

Nothing and everything had changed all at once. Finnick wondered, with a start, how long he’d have to be friends with Gale before he would be able to reach out and take Haymitch’s hand in the young man’s presence. Life didn’t stand still. Maybe someday, down the road, there’d be a point when he could.

* * *

When the door of Haymitch’s house closed behind them and it was just the two of them, Finnick turned and buried his face in the crook of Haymitch’s neck. 

“Are you alright?” he muttered, wanting to add, _Because I’m not._

Haymitch sighed. 

“No,” he admitted, arms tightening around Finnick in a way that was probably supposed to soothe himself as much as Finnick. 

The grief and misery and guilt they both felt didn’t ebb off. Though Finnick guessed it was good that at least now they knew that it would eventually, a little bit.

* * *

On the surface, nothing much had changed. Noreen and Fallon knocked at their respective doors the morning after their return and reported that they’d been over twice to dust during the Games. And there was a stray cat that had set up camp in Finnick’s yard that they didn’t know what to do with. And by the way, Noreen was pregnant again, though there was still no father in sight, which didn’t seem to fill her with a lot of concern. She was congratulated, after some careful verbal negotiation on whether or not she found that this was reason to celebrate, and looked quite satisfied when Haymitch attempted a very awkward pat on her shoulder. 

The summer grew hotter, but their houses stayed cool, the curtains keeping out the heat. They reached a silent mutual agreement to stay in and leave the world be in those first weeks after the Games. For a time, they were even too listless to flee the district and visit the lake. They didn’t even avoid the surveillance devices, figuring that they had nothing to say that Snow didn’t already know. Most of the things they said to each other weren’t anything new; others didn’t have to be said again or aloud. 

They shared space a lot, staying close, and eventually they started touching in a more intimate way again as well, rediscovering each other. 

Equilibrium returned.

* * *

“Up to anything interesting?” Finnick asked Haymitch one morning when he’d visited his house after a morning run. At first, Haymitch had been nowhere to be found. Hearing footsteps in the far wing of the house that Haymitch never used for anything, Finnick had called his name, and eventually Haymitch had shown up. His sweater had been dusty. His eyes had been a little red in a suspicious way. He’d looked a little embarrassed. 

“Just cleaning up some stuff,” he’d said in a tone that meant he wouldn’t talk about it now, but whatever he’d been doing, he felt like it could be a good thing. 

That evening, after Games class, when the children were just helping Finnick and Gale putting away the dummies, Haymitch snapped his fingers at his namesake, little Mitchy. Mitchy had recently turned eight, still a little too young and much too sickly to join in. He’d been coughing all throughout winter. 

“You,” Haymitch commanded as if talking to a recruit in boot camp. “With me, now.” 

Finnick usually had very strong feelings about respecting privacy, but found himself bitten by the curiosity bug. He knew that Haymitch wouldn’t mind if he snuck after them in this instance. He found them upstairs, skinny Mitchy dwarfed next to Haymitch in the entrance of an unused room. Mitchy’s eyes were round as saucers. 

“Can’t walk around in those rags through the winter, you’re gonna freeze off body parts.” Haymitch was nodding gruffly at whatever Mitchy was staring at in the room. Then: “Take anything. Clothes should be roughly your size. And for fuck’s sake, take some of those toys off my hands. I can’t have this shit lying around.” 

When first Mitchy, then a number of the smallest Games school children started running around in sweaters twenty years out of Capitol fashion and others carried home bed sheets and toy Hovercrafts and children’s puzzles, Finnick realized that the room meant for Haymitch’s kid brother Jackson had to have been sitting there unchanged for all these years. It had still been filled with all the clothes and brand-new kid stuff delivered after Haymitch’s victory, except Jackson had been executed before he could have played with any of them. Of course, Haymitch hadn’t cleaned those rooms out, having nobody to give these things to in his life of self-imposed solitary confinement. He’d had nobody who could have done it for him, either. Jackson and Mrs. Abernathy’s rooms had been a morgue, the door closed but the ghosts still inside. 

Now, Haymitch could be seen standing with his hands in his pockets and a drawn expression on his face while he watched the last remains of Jackson’s life re-assimilating into the district, becoming part of other children’s existences. 

Finnick stepped up to him casually, watching the last of the children go home. Gale had left early that day, having taken some of the older boys to the forest where they were learning to shoot with Katniss Everdeen’s old bow. 

Haymitch gave him a fleeting look and grimaced. 

“It just… it was time, alright?” he said defensively, as if he felt like an idiot for saying such a thing aloud. 

“I gathered as much,” Finnick replied easily. Haymitch snorted audibly, and Finnick smirked at him in reply. “It’s cold. Let’s go inside.”

* * *

They had the Twelve tailor fashion new sheets for Haymitch’s bed to replace the stiff and dusty ones that he’d been using since he’d won. They were cozy and soft and unlike any fabric used in either the Capitol or Twelve. They’d lie down on those sheets, and Haymitch would allow Finnick to touch him wherever he wanted. Sometimes, he’d close his eyes for a bit, trusting that Finnick would keep talking to him while he did so. They were learning to use words during sex, slowly, mapping out minefields; Finnick couldn’t stand even a subtle demand to do this or touch like that, and they both weren’t fond of being told what they looked like, each for different reasons. But talking about what they liked doing worked, or why they liked doing it, or what something felt like. They got a little further every time. 

Autumn arrived, then winter fell upon Twelve. Soft, fluffy snowflakes were careening down outside the window, while bright sun reflected on the ice outside. Inside, however, it was warm, a small film of sweat just on the brink of forming on the back of Finnick’s neck. 

Further up, Haymitch was fisting the sheets, muttering, “Fuck,” reduced to shivers as Finnick swallowed him down, working his cock with his tongue in that firm way that Haymitch liked best. Haymitch made this throaty, helpless sound sometimes when they did that that would just never get old. 

Haymitch’s thighs felt hot under Finnick’s hands, and he could feel the muscle in them twitching as Haymitch tried to keep still. Caressing his ass, Finnick felt how Haymitch was reangling his leg, giving him better access and a subtle cue. Making sure to telegraph the motion, he reached to gently rub his thumb against Haymitch’s entrance. Applying a little pressure did it, pushing in just so, and Haymitch started coming, deep down Finnick’s throat. 

A minute later, Haymitch’s breath was calming down, and Finnick had let go of him, slumping down next to him into the crook of his arm. Haymitch pulled him closer, getting comfortable; Finnick leaned in, and they kissed. It felt warm and familiar and satisfied. There were still what felt like a million little things that Finnick, and sometimes Haymitch, wasn’t willing or able to do. But there was a routine to the caution: they knew the things that worked, and whether they’d feel good about doing them that day. 

After that catastrophic attempt at sex in the Capitol, when Haymitch had proven to be prone to trigger reactions after all, Finnnick had been cautious, almost panicked. He’d questioned everything they did together, afraid that this time would be the time that another thing went wrong because he hadn’t considered all angles and problems. It had taken him a long time to wrap his head around what Haymitch had admitted that night for the first time, that he _liked_ Finnick making the calls. Even after Haymitch surprisingly started complaining that Finnick wouldn’t do that position anymore, it took him a while. It had been the Capitol, Haymitch had grumpily said, not the position, and he’d wanted to keep doing it; he missed it. He’d have to have been quite fed up with the situation to even say that aloud; the fact that it had been about something that he already knew Finnick liked doing, too, had probably gone a long way.

It had taken a lot of anxiety for Finnick to understand that the reason Haymitch usually didn’t have any negative reactions to what they did was because he truly enjoyed the sex the way they had it. It wasn’t a compromise; it worked for him. Haymitch had learned to fear decisions the hard way; he’d learned that any seemingly obvious choice could explode in his face. That didn’t mean he wanted Finnick to take the reins in any other part of their relationship; he was too natural a decision maker for that. But in the bedroom, it felt _safe_ to leave decisions to Finnick. It meant he could relax, and he didn’t have to worry or feel selfish about requesting things. He’d never admit it, not even to himself, but Finnick had eventually figured out that Haymitch longed for somebody who acted like he was worth the attention. Haymitch had needed to be able to tell himself that everything they did together, all the things he liked doing were just a way of accommodating Finnick. But it was like they’d had this massive breakthrough where they were now okay with the status quo. Talking about what they wanted before and after was fine, and so very important for any number of reasons; while they were at it, though, Finnick made the calls.

“Would you want to do more of that?” Finnick asked that day, his hand trailing down the inside of Haymitch’s thigh and towards his ass to clarify what he was talking about. “Anal, I mean. We’ve been doing that more often. I could fuck you, if you’d like. Or just use more of my fingers.”

He retreated his hand to a safer spot without pausing his caress when Haymitch tensed ever so slightly at the suggestion, moving his leg in an almost imperceptible defensive gesture. 

“Nah,” he said. “I ain’t really into that, I don’t think. It’s good the way it is.” 

Then there was a pause, and Finnick felt that the answer had come a little too swiftly and too casually. Haymitch didn’t have a lot of tells, but Finnick had spent a lot of time trying to learn how to see through his bullshit. For this one, Haymitch hadn’t even tried all that hard. Finnick felt like he’d gotten a reflex in answer rather than an actual opinion. Now, he waited, rearranging himself to get comfortable with his head on Haymitch’s shoulder, stroking along Haymitch’s belly and playing with the hair on his chest. 

Haymitch’s hand was still resting on Finnick’s back; it tightened after a while. 

“This is gonna sound stupid,” he announced preemptively, then audibly snapped his mouth shut again. 

Finnick waited very patiently. 

Haymitch cleared his voice. “I kind of do want to,” he said abruptly. “Want you to fuck me, I mean. I’ve never really… I’ve done it in the Capitol, I mean, they were all about that kind of sick stuff.” It was as if he’d slipped into the frame of mind of his sixteen-year-old self for that one sentence, sixteen and a district bumpkin who didn’t really know how that gay stuff worked – kind of excited about the input he got from the likes of Beetee, while a part of him wanted to shove all those things his Capitol clients did to him into a box and label it _perverts._ It showed how upset a part of him got talking about it. 

Finnick kept playing with his chest hair, moving his head a bit to press a kiss against the patch of skin he could reach, until Haymitch continued. 

“But I kept wondering about it, you know? What it would feel like, if it’s done right. I knew that Beetee liked it. Kind of hard to overlook _that_ ,” he added with a snort. “And, and you’re liking it too. So it looks like _something_ about it feels pretty damn good. A part of me…” He paused. “I guess it feels like… like they stole it from me or something. I mean, at least I want to try it out and decide for myself, you know? But then, I think about it, and…” Again, he stopped for a moment, as if he’d suddenly realized what he’d said and what a huge leap of intimacy it was for him to even admit to having sex fantasies. They were both uneasy about that kind of thing, but Haymitch was much more so. They didn’t really raise you into a sense of sexual security in a district like Twelve. 

Then, however, Haymitch continued as if he’d made a conscious choice to get it all said. “I think about it, and it’s good, but then it’s like everything clamps up and it’s just not. And I… I try to think it through, but it’s like this barrier in my head, a point where it turns bad, and I start remembering all these things. How…” He cleared his throat, his voice ebbing off on the last words. “How, when they were doing it to me, how it hurt.

“It hurt a whole fucking lot every time.” 

Throughout the three years they’d known each other, Haymitch had always done his might to minimize the impact of what the Capitol had done to him; he’d only ever insisted that it hadn’t been as bad as what had been done to Finnick and Caramel, that it hadn’t been that big a deal. 

Kind of the same way Finnick had been telling himself that his own Games hadn’t been that bad, or that fighting in the arena had even been great. In reality, he’d been a panicked, overwhelmed fourteen-year-old kid. He’d known that intellectually, but he just hadn’t allowed himself to focus on those parts. 

Finnick thought back to two years ago when they’d lain at the lake, and Haymitch had found the whole idea that their relationship could last so ludicrous. He remembered how Haymitch had turned and waded out of the water the day they’d first kissed, because the idea of feeling attracted to Finnick had been just as unacceptable as the idea of anybody feeling attracted to him. The fact that they were having this conversation now made him feel ridiculously warm inside. 

Haymitch took a breath. “So it’s not like I don’t want to do it, not really. I just don’t think there’s a way to make it work.” 

Finnick thought about that for a moment. 

“Uh,” he said. “Have you ever tried… I mean. I mean, you’ve always had Beetee’s vibrator lying around, right, so have you ever…” 

Haymitch shrugged awkwardly, as much as he could with Finnick cuddled up against him. It was quite possible that Finnick would have had a unique opportunity to see him blush had he raised his head.

“Funny thing,” Haymitch said, regrouped rapidly even as he was talking, then relaunched. “Funny thing, I did, I really did, I… once or twice. I mean, I was nineteen or so,” he clarified, as if that had anything to do with anything. Maybe it really did for him by some logic Finnick wasn’t party to. “And…” He huffed an embarrassed laugh. “I mean, look at that thing, it’s huge. No idea what Beetee was thinking with that, it just ain’t _practical_ to use that for anything. Not that it wasn’t mostly meant as a joke. But, yeah. I mean, I played around with it. Just because it was there and all, and I figured… well. And then, I just… I just felt really stupid, right, I suddenly started thinking, what am I even doing? So I put it away. And I never touched it again until we had a proper use for it.” 

“But did it work, though?” Finnick asked. “Or did it give you a bad reaction like you’d feared?” There was a world of difference between feeling stupid and getting violent nausea, or slipping into a flashback. 

Haymitch sighed. “Well, no,” he allowed. “It was different, obviously. Don’t know about you…” The small hitch that followed now clearly was him hesitating and worrying about bringing up Finnick’s own Capitol activities, giving _him_ a bad reaction. Though, Finnick himself was a little ashamed to admit that a part of him felt _glad_ they had this thing in common, so that Haymitch was able to understand what it was like. From the few conversations he’d had with non-victors, he had a feeling that most people didn’t even get why anything about sex should be hard. “Don’t know what it’s like for you,” Haymitch eventually settled on saying. “But when it was happening to me… they wouldn’t put anything up my ass beside their dicks. It wasn’t about me getting anything out of it. They wouldn’t have bothered.” 

It _was_ different for Finnick. There hadn’t been anything under the sun that people hadn’t made him do, maybe because the times had changed, or because he attracted a different clientele, or maybe just because he had such a big one. He sometimes thought that was why he didn’t have reactions like Haymitch was describing now, from anal sex or deepthroating or any of these really intrusive things. He’d used to think he’d just been desensitized, or that he was just that big a slut; nowadays, he suspected it was simply because he was too aware that he couldn’t afford protective reactions. He had this huge adrenaline surge every time he was with a client, much like when he’d been in the arena; he had all these terrible ramifications of a bad performance in his head. He couldn’t let himself develop a reflex. A reflex would get punished. 

He was suddenly doubly relieved that this was a thing that hadn’t happened to Haymitch, that he had retained this ability of making a distinction between people who did things for him and who did things _to_ him because otherwise, none of the things they were doing with each other would work. 

“How about if I used fingers?” he asked, and for a moment, he was sure he’d reached the point where Haymitch would tell him they’d talked about this enough, this wasn’t necessary, and anyway, none of this was important because he’d already said they shouldn’t try; it wouldn’t work. 

But then Haymitch’s body relaxed back into the pillows under his, as if he’d made another choice to engage a little further and see where it went. 

“Depends,” he eventually said slowly. “If it’s just fingers for the sake of fingers, maybe. We’d have to try it out and see how it goes.” Finnick knew that meant verbal confirmation would have to be involved: reminding Haymitch that he was only doing this so that Haymitch would feel good, not because he wanted to use him for something, would help keep memories at bay. “If it’s fingers so that you can shove something bigger inside after, I’m not sure.” 

“We could do that,” Finnick agreed. “I can do that. If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Haymitch said, sounding almost surprised. “Yeah, I think I do.”

“We could get a better toy from the Capitol,” Finnick added.

“Not through Trinket, we won’t,” Haymitch promptly said, and Finnick snorted a laugh into the crook of his neck. 

“I’d buy one in a store. I bet Snow would love that paparazzi shot.”

They were both laughing then, a little hysterical, like twelve-year-olds who’d been caught talking sex. 

When their chuckles had dried off, they didn’t say anything else for a while anymore, and Finnick thought that Haymitch had probably exhausted his dose of soul baring for the day. This was hard for him; for the longest time, Finnick hadn’t really understood how hard exactly. A part of him had believed that Haymitch knew precisely what he wanted but just hadn’t been willing to share, and now he knew that just the act of sorting through his needs and desires was a huge mountain he needed to climb anew every time, never mind verbalizing it. Half a year ago, he wouldn’t have talked about anything that he thought wouldn’t work in the first place. 

Haymitch pulled him closer for a second, squeezing him. 

“Maybe, maybe the fingers thing first,” he said. “Let’s talk about the other thing after.”

“Okay,” Finnick agreed readily, knowing that it didn’t quite matter whether or not it would work. Maybe it wouldn’t, and they’d catch on early enough, and that would be alright, too. He was working on believing Haymitch when he said it wasn’t a tragedy if something backfired; it just meant that they’d know to do it differently the next time. The important thing to him was that Haymitch had found things he might want and that he was willing to share. 

Now, however, Haymitch started getting out of bed. 

“Shower time,” he announced unnecessarily. “Want to come with?”

“Sure,” Finnick said and got up.

* * *

In a world other than this, Haymitch was away on Victory Tour with not one, but two children in his care, never even meeting Finnick at his stop in Four, or thinking that there should be a pressing need to do so. In that other world, a rebellion was afoot. A Quarter Quell unlike any other was announced, but it was never concluded. A war was fought instead. People died. Others survived and started new lives, and some survived and didn’t. There were babies, though, and new generations ready to do it all differently; a shaky first attempt at an election was held. 

This, however, was not that world. 

The victors in this world only ever felt the touch of freedom fleetingly and without paying it much mind. 

Somehow, they kept making it anyway, like they had for the previous seventy-three years.

This winter, snow covered the Victors’ Village in a heavy white coat. Buckets poured down until long into spring. 

They fought a battle to mask the paths of children’s footsteps leading into the backyards of the two occupied houses, the adult steps stopping at a window at Swaggers’, or vanishing out of sight behind the Village towards that weakened spot in the fence. But those paths always reappeared before long. 

In the mornings, Finnick’s long, striding foot prints would always lead along the fence for his runs, sometimes accompanied by the smaller ones of Aleese, and then, they’d return. 

“Maybe I’ll get reaped and win and I’d make everything better for Mitchy and Janna and me,” she said one day, sheepishly, when they slowed down to catch their breath at the height of the mines. 

Finnick didn’t look at her. 

“Maybe you could, yeah,” he said, knowing that _reaped_ would change into _volunteer_ one day, and it would still mean probable death, but he’d encourage her to do so anyway.

She’d turned fourteen. You could survive the Games at fourteen. Finnick himself had been the one who’d proven that. 

Finnick felt like he had proven that you could survive a whole lot of other things, too.

* * *

When the Quarter Quell announcement crept close, Haymitch stopped leaving the house. 

It didn’t take a genius to understand that he was fighting against relapsing harder than he had to in over two years. 

When the television in the living room turned itself on to start blaring the broadcast all across the districts, he got up and bolted out of the room. 

Finnick followed him ten minutes later, finding him in the kitchen. 

“How bad is it?” Haymitch ground out over his shoulder, back turned to Finnick, holding onto the kitchen counter with both hands. 

Finnick clenched his jaw. 

“They’ll be reaping kids that haven’t ever taken tesserae,” he said, thinking of the merchant class that all the districts had, thinking of the few other children in those privileged positions, trying so hard to stop himself from doing the math on how likely it was that they’d be seeing victors’ relatives in those Games. Snow had no reason to punish him by reaping Coral, he tried to tell himself. He didn’t. 

Haymitch had been holding himself so still that his shoulders were shaking now. He released one long, extended breath that did nothing to wash the tension away. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his mind having searched that announcement for how it was bad, as well.

“It’s to show that nobody in the districts will ever get out of the Hunger Games, I think,” Finnick added. “There’s no way.”

Haymitch huffed a pained laugh. “Like we needed a reminder of that.”

Most districts wouldn’t be displeased, Finnick thought, thinking of the entire Seam of Twelve and how it would be safe for once, of Vick and Rory Hawthorne, Primrose Everdeen and Aleese, of the working class in District Four. At Wintermas, Caramel had hinted at unrest that was growing amongst fishermen, and Cecilia had told in hushed voices about a riot that had barely been prevented in a fabric manufactorer in Eight. This would calm the districts down and at the same time, leave all victors with families trembling in fear about doing even one wrong step. 

The Capitol would be dubious, but they’d come around once Cashmere’s little sister or – _fuck_ – one of Mags’ grandchildren climbed Flickerman’s stage. 

_No volunteers_ , the special rule of this year’s Quarter Quell said, as if Snow had noted the rise and fall of Katniss Everdeen, maybe Finnick's happiness in his new home, and he didn't like either one of these developments one bit. 

Finnick muttered a warning when he stepped up to Haymitch and hugged him from behind, resting his chin on Haymitch’s shoulder, and Haymitch grasped the arm wrapping around his waist so that he was holding onto Finnick just as much. 

Again, they stood there for a while, knowing that it had just become worse, waiting for it to get better again.

* * *

They still hadn’t painted Haymitch’s house. 

It would be some time until spring thaw, so they couldn’t right now. 

They talked about it, though, planning it as a project for April or May. What color should they use? How did you even paint a house? What tools would they need, and could they rent ladders from the official in charge of district construction, or should they just have the district carpenter make one for them? They could hire her for the finer points and do the grunt work themselves. 

However, it was so cold, they often had those conversations wrapped in warm winter coats, huddled together on the bench in front of Haymitch’s porch, only occasionally disrupted by a child who came running down the road because an urgent Games question had just occurred to them and it needed being answered _now._ Or sometimes, they’d just been looking for an excuse to warm up and mooch a bit to eat. It was easy to hear them coming, though, and their arms and hands quickly detangled when they heard noise. 

Most days, nobody came by, though. Finnick would lean against Haymitch’s shoulder idly after a while, and Haymitch would put his arm around Finnick’s shoulder. 

The more time passed, the more new problems occurred – some big, some small – and the less time they had to think about the 74th Games, about the change of Games rules that had never taken place, about what could have been. The Quell would come and end, and everything would revert to normal afterwards. 

They had a life for themselves now, a life that sometimes had nothing to do with the Games. They’d built a thing and made it theirs. And it wasn’t that that life would ever be enough; it would never be what either of them deserved. 

But in Finnick’s mind, they’d still changed the odds in their favor aplenty. 

They’d changed any number of rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! Phew! 
> 
> Couple of editorial notes: 
> 
> I am not currently planning a sequel to this story. I _might_ write a thing in the future, possibly something companion-ish from Haymitch’s POV. Keeping that possibility in mind, I added this story to a series, so you can put the series on your alert list and receive an email if there ever should be sequels. 
> 
> If you’d be interested in reading original stuff I wrote, I recently found a publisher who’ll be publishing a number of my short stories, as well as a novel probably in a year, both of these in English, and then an anthology of fantasy short stories in German in nine months or so. For now, this will all be lesbian fiction. I’ve you’re interested in getting notifications about those things, you can sign up for my newsletter: [this one](http://list-manage.us9.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=0cf2328d4392c9616f5f98b52&id=a49403c3d0) for English-language stories and [that one](http://ylva-publishing.us9.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=0cf2328d4392c9616f5f98b52&id=509943bb4d) for German ones. My pen name is Patricia Penn. (my pennnn name! :D… scnr) Or else leave me your email address in a comment and I’ll add you to the list. You’d be receiving an email every three months or so. 
> 
> That said, I would love it if you left me a comment and told me how you liked not just the last chapter but Spin Control overall, whether there was anything that you liked particularly or maybe something that you didn’t like. I value any kind of squee or constructive feedback. Also feel free to tell me if there’s anything you’d like to read more about. You never know, I might get inspired! :-)
> 
> Thank you all so very much for your many, many lovely comments, recommendations and kudos that you’ve left within the last one-and-a-half years. I appreciated each and every one of them, and man, I have so many positive feelings about y’all. If you wanna stay in touch, beyond the above mentioned newsletter, I’m Trovia both on Livejournal and on Tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Starry Sky Above](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169300) by [lorata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata)




End file.
